


Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)

by Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, F/M, Office Romance, Sexual Content, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office Romance Modern AU. </p><p>Ex-military police officer, Sandor Clegane, owns a thriving private investigation firm.  Despite a steady onslaught of new business, Sandor swears up and down that he doesn't need a secretary to help him around the office. The truth of the matter is he cannot keep a secretary to save his life.  His brusque demeanor, scarred face, and no-bullshit attitude sends them running for the door.  Sansa Stark's resume lands on his desk one day and, at his wit's end, Sandor decides to give her a shot.    </p><p>Tensions reach a fever pitch as these two maneuver around misunderstandings, mutual denial of a growing attraction, a professional working dynamic which becomes increasingly harder to manage, and pre-existing romantic relationships that only complicate matters further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wajuuniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajuuniverse/gifts).



> I need another WIP like a hole in the head, but I couldn't stop myself! 
> 
> This is based off of a tumblr prompt here :http://meifiction.tumblr.com/post/99422959237/modern-au-sandor-served-as-a-military-policeman-when
> 
> This story also functions to fill a 30-day writing prompt, although I doubt I will be able to finish this in 30 days!(http://keypea.tumblr.com/post/100620174100/i-just-finished-a-30-days-of-writing-challenge-and)
> 
> Fic title comes from the Weeknd song of the same title.

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

Prologue

* * *

 

Sandor heard the _rap-a-tap-tap_ of his secretary’s knuckles against his doorframe just fine.  In the periphery of his vision, he even saw her shifting from side-to-side on her chubby legs, impatiently waiting for him to acknowledge her hovering in the doorway. He stubbornly clung to the ruse that suggested he was up to his eyeballs in work.  He shuffled papers around his desk, threw down his pen with contrived exasperation, and sighed heavily as if the work was taxing and the interruption unwanted.  In reality, he had been perusing some bullshit articles on a men’s health website to kill time before his next meeting.  With another _rap-a-tap_ and a clearing of her throat, Susan was wandering into his office. It was her last day and he supposed she had come to bid her farewells. 

 

Goodbyes were never easy, but this had nothing to do with him missing her, though.  What was there to miss? Certainly, not the annoying way she talked to herself or her chronic habit of hacking up phlegm.  During her first month, she had boldly asked him what happened to the secretaries before her.  She was the sixth one he had hired within the past year. He had answered her question, amused and irritated she even asked.  _“They all quit.”_ She had frowned at his vague response, but figured it out soon enough on her own.

 

Sandor never claimed to be an easy person to work for. A heavy-handed warning was issued during all interviews and subsequent first days. Private investigative work wasn’t glamorous. It was long nights doing paperwork that the day-to-day investigations didn’t always leave time for. It was executing unusual tasks that the job required. Often times, it was handling unsettling issues that shed light on just how fucked up the world could be. The job was demanding and so too was he. As much as he tried to make that exceedingly clear, all his previous secretaries had only smiled through thin, rouged lips and nodded understandingly at him.

 

In the end, they were all the same. They’d plop their fat asses down in front of a computer, answer the phones, file paperwork at a snail’s pace, and maybe create a spreadsheet in excel if they really felt like kicking their productivity up a notch. Beyond that, the rest of their days were spent online shopping for hideous old-lady get-ups or knitting patterns. Soon enough, though, his demands would come pouring in and most would find themselves in over their heads. Susan was no exception – tacky outfits, fat ass and all – but she had stuck around the longest, a whopping five months. Her husband had recently retired and wanted to settle somewhere north, Minnesota perhaps.  At least, that was Susan’s story.  If her husband wanted to freeze his old balls off up north, so be it. Would Sandor miss Susan? No, but his life would be a whole hell of a lot easier if he didn’t have to hire yet _another_ secretary.

 

"I ordered three more boxes of printer paper,” Susan informed, one eye staring at him and the other – the lazy one – drifting off into open space.  “Someone – either my replacement or you - will have to order toner for the copier soon." 

 

_I don’t care about this boring shit, lady._

 

"Alright," Sandor groaned before clicking the button on his mouse and furrowing his brow at the screen.  With any luck, she’d leave it at that and leave him to his “Give Her The Best Orgasm Ever” article, or whatever the fuck it was he had been browsing through. 

 

To his dismay, not only did Susan _not_ leave, she hobbled closer to his desk and, with an outstretched arm, shoved a stack of papers in front of him.

 

"You haven’t hired anyone to replace me yet.  This was sent in last Thursday,” she began when he warily eyed the papers, but refused to take them.

 

_Not this song and dance again…_

 

They’d already had this conversation and the path it paved was circular. Sandor argued he didn’t need a secretary. Susan scoffed and begged to differ. Sandor told her how tired he was of the hiring process and the eventual drama of his secretary either bursting into tears in his office while quitting or waning away into “no call, no show” oblivion. Susan countered with a laundry list of all the tasks she took care of for him.  In the end, they had reached an impasse and left it at that.

 

It was her last day and her last stand. Accordingly, Susan tossed the papers down in front of him.

 

“I did a phone interview with her on Tuesday.  She has a Bachelors degree in Criminal Justice and a Masters in Business Administration. She sounds very sweet and very professional. You should seriously consider this one." 

 

Sandor glared at the woman. He had wasted enough of his time interviewing hordes of idiots who didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Why would this chick be any different, even with her fancy degrees?

 

"I don't want sweet," he insisted harshly, shoving the papers back across his desk. "I want competent, level-headed, and thick-skinned. I don't need some princess who's going to cry herself to sleep at night if I don’t have rainbows shooting out of my ass at every turn.”

 

Feeling suddenly drained, Sandor ran a hand over his face and drew in a deep breath.

 

“I’m tired of this shit.”

 

He meant to only think the words, not speak them.  No one knew he needed a secretary better than he did. In the times he had gone without one, he had found himself veritably drowning in the tedious components of business upkeep.  He didn’t have the patience or wherewithal for those tasks.  He was a military police officer by training and his meticulous investigative work was what kept his client base intact. What he lacked was business acumen. He got by the best he could, learning as he went.  An MBA would be a welcomed asset to have on board.  Susan’s vested interest in the matter was rapidly vanishing as the clock tick-tocked towards five.  As such, Sandor kept these revelations to himself.

 

“The deadline for applications was last Wednesday, not Thursday,” he said curtly.  “If she can't submit her resume by a deadline, how the hell do I know she’s going to meet other deadlines?"  

 

With a shrug of the shoulders, Susan rolled her eyes, too exasperated to humor his bullshit much longer. Sandor watched the woman waddle towards the door, her purse in hand and a broad smile on her face. _Well, don’t look too goddamn happy that you’re free of me._

Stopping in the doorway on her way out, Susan turned to him once more.

 

"Consider the Keurig my parting gift.”  With another smile of sweet relief, she meandered from his office. 

 

After a few moments of shuffling footsteps and one last round of Susan’s hacking up phlegm, Sandor was left in silence. He swiveled in his chair as he tossed a foam stress ball up in the air.  He still had an hour and half left to kill before meeting a potential client.  Having had his fill of trashy Internet articles, he scrolled through his inbox only to find his emails answered and sorted into their appropriate folders, no new ones in sight.  A quick glance at his phone showed no new voicemails either. Rocking back and forth in his seat, Sandor eyed the papers left scattered on his desk.

_Toss it in the “reject” pile and be done with it._

Gathering up the papers, he would have done just that.  He would have told himself the job posting that Susan put up was the problem and, if he wanted qualified candidates for the job, he’d have to put up the posting himself.

It was the feel of the paper, the weight of it, which caught his attention. It didn’t have the same thin feel as the shitty office printer paper. The girl had sent in her resume or perhaps dropped it off. No one bothered with that crap nowadays. Everything was electronically submitted with the expectation of employment without all the legwork.  This was a small detail, but it was enough for him to turn over the pages of the linen paper to see what was on the other side. 

Sansa Stark was the girl’s name. It had a nice alliterative ring to it. _Sansa Stark._ If he said it out loud, Sandor imagined it’d be soft on his tongue. At first glance, her resume was better organized and more aesthetically pleasing than any that had come across his desk. Big name schools, top of her class, a volunteer at an animal shelter and other various charitable organizations – the girl would be better off applying for canonization as a Saint. A cursory look through her cover letter revealed a similar listing off of all the _amazing_ shit she had done.  Sandor couldn’t help but let out a derisive laugh.

_I knew it. A total princess. We’ll see about that…_

He tossed the papers aside and turned back to his keyboard.  He had learned early on to “screen” candidates by browsing their social media pages. Most were stupid enough to leave up pictures of themselves getting plastered on the weekends. Some even left up posts complaining about their current jobs or interviews they had been on. If he searched hard enough, he was likely to dig up some dirt on this girl or at least prove to himself she wasn’t all her resume suggested she was.

He typed her name into google and hit enter, rubbing his hands together with a smug smile when a link popped up to her facebook page.  When he clicked on it, Sandor found the smirk fading from his lips as he stared at the profile picture on his screen.

_Goddamn, she’s pretty._

He leaned towards the screen, examining closer as if his eyes had deceived him. With her arms thrown around a large Siberian husky, she seemed to be laughing in the picture. Her smile was beaming, her eyes a vibrant blue, and her red hair tumbling down over bare shoulders. This wasn’t some contrived selfie – camera dangling precariously from above to capture the best angle and lips pursed into a ridiculous duck face. This picture was genuine and candid, something he wasn’t quite used to encountering these days.

Sandor clicked through her album of tagged pictures.  These were where the gems were usually found – the embarrassing, the unflattering, and the damning ones. All he found, though, were pictures of her posing shyly with friends, ones of her making goofy faces for the camera, and ones showcasing her many forays into baking.

He scanned her wall, waiting for something incriminating to pop up.  Instead, he found pictures of girly shit – clothes, make-up, and shoes she seemed to like – and text posts that held a similar sort of innocent sweetness – her gushing about her family, her boyfriend, and her dog. By all appearances, this girl truly was all she seemed.

Although it was clear there was no dirt to be found on her, Sandor continued to scroll through her pictures anyhow, increasingly intrigued to know more about her. Sandor’s scrolling suddenly stopped when he came across a picture buried amongst loads of innocuous posts.

Sitting on the edge of a couch, she was in a blue dress – low cut enough to show off just the right amount of cleavage and one strap falling off her shoulder. She didn’t smile for the camera as she had for the others.  Instead, she was biting at the fullness of her bottom lip and the length of her hair was tossed over one shoulder as she looked down. It certainly wasn’t scandalous by his standards, but it elicited a reaction from him as if were and as if he shouldn’t be staring at it as he was - heart beating faster in his chest and his breaths coming quicker too. Someone named Joffrey, her boyfriend by all appearances, had tagged her in the photo along with an obnoxious declaration that she “belonged to him and him alone”.  Sandor let out a rumbling laugh at that before closing out of the tab.

He stared at her resume on his desk, toying with the idea of calling her. Business had been picking up lately – both a blessing and a curse. There was no way he could manage it all on his own.  This girl had the credentials to be of use around the office and hers was the most qualified application that he had come across.

Back and forth, his eyes drifted between the phone and her resume. He chewed his lip and squeezed his stress ball.  He swiveled in his chair and listened to the city traffic somewhere outside the window. When his gaze landed back on the phone, he snatched it up and punched in the numbers before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang once and then twice. A third rang came and Sandor sighed with relief that he could leave a voicemail or maybe just hang up.    

“Hello?” a voice answered, somewhere between the third and fourth ring. 

“Hi,” Sandor spoke gruffly into the phone. “Is this Ms. Stark?”

“Yes, it is.” Even her voice was sweet – a soft chime in a sing-song rhythm and a bit breathless too.

“Ms. Stark,” Sandor began, aware now that his hands were inexplicably clammy. “My name is Sandor Clegane and I’m with Clegane Investigative Services.  I’m calling about the resume you submitted.”

“Yes!” the girl exclaimed. “Thank you so much for calling back.  I really appreciate it.” Her voice came exerted on the other end of the line and he could hear a faint shuffling in the background.

“If you have a few moments, I’d like to ask you some questions,” Sandor continued, aware now that he may have interrupted her in the middle of something.   

“Yes, sorry…” Sansa breathed gently before pausing.  He could hear a door open and then close from her end. “Just one second…” The noise died down until she spoke once more. “I teach a dance class on Thursday nights so I’m-”

“If you’re busy at the moment, you can call back later,” Sandor interrupted.

“No! Its fine,” Sansa assured. “Alright, I’m all yours.”

He paused momentarily, knocked off kilter and a bit annoyed that he was suddenly at a loss for what to say. He had called her after all and it wasn’t for fucking small talk. 

“My secretary…well…former secretary, Susan, she told you about the position?”

“Yes, during my phone interview she told me what you’re looking for and what the job is like. I think I could really be a great asset to your firm, Mr. Clegane.”  

Sweet, she certainly was, but a go-getter too.  Sandor hadn’t quite expected that from her and found himself surprisingly impressed by her assertion.

“What’s your availability? You say you teach a dance class on Thursday nights.  What if I want you on a Thursday night?” 

_Fuck,_ he mouthed silently and his forehead promptly met the palm of his hand.

Though he truly hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, he couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to himself with a shake of his head and grin plastered to his lips. If the girl caught the blatant innuendo, she certainly didn’t let on.

“I assure you that if you offered me the position, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Sansa replied without missing a beat. “My job with you would be my first priority.”

Sandor nodded his head at her reply, pleased with how she was living up to his expectations.

“Okay. What would your commute be like?” Sandor inquired. “There are times you might have to be here early or stay late.  Is that something you could handle?” he added brusquely. 

“I live in the area, near the Central West End, so I wouldn’t have much of a commute.  I’m okay with late nights and early mornings. Really, I’m flexible with my schedule.”

Silent, Sandor nodded once more. There wasn’t really much to consider. The girl not only stacked up on paper, but she had also given him all the answers he wanted to hear. For all intents and purposes, this was a slam-dunk and he should be offering her a job.  So why the fuck was he so gun shy? He could hear her soft little breaths of anticipation on the other end as she waited for his reply.

“If you’re still interested in the job, you can come in for a day to get a feel for what you’d be doing and for me,” he spoke tepidly.  “Then we can go from there.  How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect!” Sansa declared excitedly. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Clegane. When would you like me to come in?"

_Give her the weekend._

“Tomorrow. You can come tomorrow,” Sandor said despite his instincts.  Fridays were the busiest days for him and not exactly ideal for showing this girl the ropes.

“Oh. Okay. Tomorrow it is.” He could hear the deflation in her voice and the way she tried to cover it up with feigned cheerfulness.  

“Is that going to be a problem or something?” he nearly growled into the phone. 

“No.  Tomorrow is fine,” Sansa assured gently. 

“Good. Come at eight. Make sure you’re on time. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow and I don’t like waiting.” 

His words were biting and he couldn’t say why.  Sandor was routinely accused of sabotaging the good things that came his way – nice gestures and kind people. He only felt passingly guilty for the unceremonious way he hung up the phone without another word. She’d have to get used to his roughness eventually so he had good reason to not coat his words in artificial sugar.  Later, though, he thought back on the way he ended the call and hoped like hell that she’d actually show up. Then he wondered why it mattered.  Was it that MBA she had under her belt or was it the fact that he couldn’t get the pictures of her out of his mind?


	2. Start

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

Chapter Two - _Start_

* * *

 

Sansa would have driven had she known the walk – a mere three-fourths of a mile – was going to be hell in these heels.  Joffrey had refused it, though.  It was an artifact of his anger, which insisted that she had purposefully hidden this trial workday from him.  All last night, Sansa assured him as best she could.  Conjuring up every bit of her famed sweetness, she explained that it was sprung on her and honestly hadn’t expected a call back, certainly not from Mr. Clegane himself. She pleaded her case and Joff responded with a scathing threat – to hide her car keys.  If she really wanted this, she would have to walk and so she did, pounding pavement with hustled strides and head held high.

The khaki pencil skirt she wore was tighter than she remembered.  Sansa cursed beneath her breath for not trying on the outfit last night. She would have made a trip to the mall for something a bit more appropriate had she known how tightly the skirt hugged her hips and ass.  Then again, she hadn’t exactly been given a wealth of time to prepare for her trial workday. Her top wasn’t much better. It was a simple, white button-down, but it stretched across her chest, so much so Sansa swore she might have gained a cup size since the last time she wore it.  If Joffrey had been home to see her outfit, he would have told her she looked like a slut and demanded that she changed. 

“What was he like when you talked to him?” Margaery asked as Sansa cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek. She incessantly tapped the crosswalk button and waited for the little white man to light up across the way.

“Hmm, professional, but not overly nice. Just very straight-to-the-point,” Sansa replied as she hurried across the street.  She ignored the catcalls being shouted at her and avoided the leering eyes peering out of cars stopped at red lights.

“I don’t know, Sansa,” Margaery sighed, her tone cautious. “What if he’s a jerk?”

Sansa already knew Mr. Clegane was a jerk. Like any smart job-hunter, she had done her homework on his firm.  A website dedicated to employees – current and past – rating companies they worked for told her all she needed to know. 

_‘The owner is a complete ass! The job was interesting, but not worth dealing with a prick for a boss,’_ one reviewer had said. 

And then there was the one that stood out in her mind:

_‘If you enjoy coming home in tears and putting up with a moody jerk, then this job is for you. Otherwise, save yourself the grief and go elsewhere. I’d rather live out of my car than spend another day working for Sandor Clegane. He’s a smart man.  It’s a shame no one taught him any social skills or how to control his temper. Awful!’_   

“If he’s a jerk, then I’ll find somewhere else to work, I guess.”

The words came dull despite the cheerful reassurances she padded them with.  A knot was forming in her stomach; the thought of being back on the job-hunting circuit literally making her sick.  “That’s the nice thing about this being a trial day.  If I don’t like it, no harm, no foul.”

“How does Joff feel about all of this?” Margaery probed, her tone suddenly serious and voice softer too. 

_The million-dollar question,_ Sansa thought wanly to herself.  She often wondered how that question became a regular inquiry when anything remotely positive happened to her. Everyone in her life waited on baited breath for the other shoe to drop, that other shoe being Joffrey’s thoughts and feelings on her decisions.

“I think he’s just gotten used to me being around while I was looking for a job.”

Sansa was well aware she hadn’t quite answered Margaery’s question. Once more, she would have to make excuses for Joff’s behavior, but it often felt as if she were explaining away her own odd behaviors as much as his - the way she walked on eggshells around him, the way she often had to hide trivial and mundane things from him.

“He’s used to me taking care of the apartment, making all the meals, being there when he gets home from work, doing the whole domestic thing. I figure it will take some adjustments on both of our parts, but we’ll make it work.”

Silence came on the other end of the phone and Sansa thought she had lost the signal, which was cutting in and out throughout the conversation.  

“I guess, girl,” Margaery finally responded, clearly unconvinced. “Well, good luck, sweetie! Let me know how it goes.” 

Sansa said her goodbyes to her friend and tucked her phone back into her purse. It was as good as useless as the signal finally disappeared once and for all.  She wandered down the wrong street for a block, aware that she was heading towards a shoddy part of town.  Eventually, and by a stroke of pure luck, she managed to find the building matching the address she had scribbled down on a piece of paper.

The old brick structure was tucked away in an alley off of a busy city street.  The buildings surrounding it were in varying states of disrepair. According to Joff, it was the hipster thing to do in this town - rolling into shady neighborhoods and opening up a small, independent business thereby turning the community around. Inside the building, the bottom floor housed a small coffee shop with a few well-dressed patrons at the counter waiting for their brews. On the second floor, there was a dentist’s office, an accounting group, and a handful of other non-descript companies.  Sansa made her way up to the third floor and wiped at the sweat beading lightly on her brow.  For the end of September, she hadn’t expected it to be this hot.  The third floor was mostly unoccupied spaces with “for lease” signs hung on doorknobs.   

Sansa stood in front of a frosted glass door, gold letters set proudly within and declaring this as Clegane Investigative Services. She smoothed down the front of her blouse and threw her shoulders back to stand up straight. She let out a deep breath through her lips and hit the buzzer to indicate her arrival. 

From within, she could hear heavy footfalls pounding towards the door.  She didn’t know what Mr. Clegane looked like.  He didn’t have a facebook profile or a LinkedIn account. The only things she had uncovered in her searches were those unsavory reviews left by disgruntled employees. By the deep timbre of his voice, she knew he was likely a large man. When the door was finally yanked open, Sansa found her assumption to be correct. Standing in the door way was quite possibly the largest man she had ever seen. Her gaze drifted from his wide chest and tapered waist up to broad shoulders covered with long, strands of jet-black hair. Mr. Clegane’s arms were massive and heavily muscled beneath a grey shirt that was a bit too small for his huge frame.

When her eyes finally scanned up to his face, she unwittingly let out a tiny gasp and settled back on her heels. The left side of his face was covered from forehead to chin in scars.  The puckered, glossy skin even extended beyond his hairline, which he tried in earnest to cover over with long tendrils of hair. The good side of his face was distinctly masculine - a hooked nose, heavy brow, and sharp jawline. It was his eyes, though, which seemed to have inspired her sudden fear.  They were a pale shade of grey, but were menacing as they stared directly at her with a scowl to match the intensity of his gaze.

It may not have been so bad if the man was not easily pushing seven feet tall.  His entire body filled the doorway, the top of his head missing the doorframe by a mere inch or two.  Sansa pulled in a deep breath and forced her eyes to meet his in a gesture of courtesy.

“Hi, Mr. Clegane. I’m Sansa.” She extended her hand to him, ignoring the way it trembled, and even managed a smile.

The man’s jaw clenched, as he seemed to grind his teeth together.  

“You’re late,” he growled, his icy stare flicking from her extended hand and back towards her face.  Sansa let her arm fall to her side as he turned away. She caught the door before it closed and scrambled in after him.

Could she really be all _that_ late? Having only lived in this town for a few months, she knew to give herself plenty of time to get places, a portion of which was dedicated to getting lost.  Although she had only just met the guy, Sansa already knew better than to argue the point.

“I’m really sorry,” Sansa apologized instead. “I took a wrong turn and-”

Her words were cut off as Mr. Clegane turned abruptly on his heel, his movements so thoroughly intimidating that Sansa couldn’t help but take a stumbling step backwards

“A word to the wise, get here five minutes early. That’s what I consider on-time,” he informed harshly. 

Sensing any more apologies on her part might only aggravate him further, Sansa bit her lip and kept quiet, clutching tightly to the straps of her purse. She thought he might turn away once more. Instead, he continued to stare at her, his eyes boring into her with a heaviness she had never experienced before. She had marveled at his size and the scars that covered half of his face.  Politely, Sansa knew to make eye contact when she spoke to him and to look away when she wasn’t.  It was rude to stare. Mr. Clegane seemed to have missed this memo and she understood now what the reviewer had meant when they said, _‘it’s a shame no one taught him any social skills.’_

He was staring at Sansa, unabashed as his eyes appraised her. She could feel his gaze drifting up her body as she nervously looked around the office space.  The intensity of his stare could veritably be _felt_. It settled on her neck exposed by her ponytail, then her lips, which she licked anxiously, and finally her eyes, which refused to meet his own. She looked down at her feet instead and shifted nervously.  

“I’ll show you around,” she finally heard him say after moments of unbearable silence. 

Sansa sighed quietly in relief as she followed Mr. Clegane to a large, L-shaped desk on the wall next to the door. It housed a computer, phone, and all other secretarial necessities. 

“If things work out, this would be your desk. You can leave your stuff there for now.”

Just as intimidating as his massive size, Mr. Clegane’s voice was a deep rumble from his lips.  There was no warmth or welcoming to be found in the way it boomed through the office. Sansa set her purse down on the desk and turned towards Mr. Clegane. _He was watching me again,_ she realized.

She smiled up at him, trying desperately to ease the tension of the room that had become near claustrophobic. This seemed to have flustered him as he quickly let his eyes dart away, perhaps embarrassed he had been caught leering at her.  Then again, Sansa sensed this man was shameless and probably didn’t care one way or another if he was making her uncomfortable.

“This is my office,” he coldly informed, nodding towards the open door, which separated his workspace from the front area. “It’s off limits when I’m not here. When I am here, I usually keep the door closed.”

“What if I need to speak with you?” Sansa ventured softly. “Would I-”

“You either call my extension or send me an email,” Mr. Clegane interrupted, irritated by the question. “I don’t like to be bothered otherwise.”

“Got it,” she murmured as she followed him across the room towards an opening that led to a narrow hallway.

“The front door locks automatically,” Mr. Clegane began again as he led the way down the short hall.  Sansa took hurried steps to keep up with him, her heels clicking in steady rhythm against the wood floor.  “If you get locked out, you’re S.O.L.  You’ll get a set of keys.  It goes without saying that you better not lose them.”

“The bathrooms,” Mr. Clegane announced, stopping in front of two doors. He shifted awkwardly as his hands disappeared into his pockets. “Susan and some of the former secretaries put girl stuff in there. I don’t know what all that entails and I don’t want to know, but it’s there, apparently.”

Sansa watched the man’s massive shoulders roll into a shrug.  A soft giggle broke through her lips as she now realized the source of his sudden discomfort. His eyes shifted, icy once more as he looked down at her.

“Is something funny?” he grumbled, clearly not amused by her sudden mirth.

“No, sorry.”  Sansa shook her head and erased the smile from her lips. Mr. Clegane continued towards the end of the hall, which terminated into a small space housing a copier and some filing cabinets. 

“Copy room.  There are office supplies in here too,” he said as Sansa poked her head into the space for a look around.

Feeling the heaviness of his gaze once more, curiosity lifted Sansa’s eyes to him and a sudden boldness bid them to remain there. He appeared somehow taken aback by this, unable to stare at her as he had been.  His gaze darted to her lips then to her eyes, over her head, back to her eyes, as if he half expected her to no longer be staring at him.  It appeared she was now the one making _him_ feel uncomfortable. The narrowness of the hall afforded a foot or so of space between them, a fact they were both quickly aware of. She could smell the faint scent of his cologne - masculine, woodsy, and warm. _At least he smells nice._ With the intrusive thought, Sansa finally lowered her eyes.

“I assume you were taught how to use a copier in your MBA program so I won’t waste any time showing you that.”

As Mr. Clegane spoke, the sardonic and insulting subtext of his words was alarmingly and deliberately clear.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa offered Mr. Clegane a smile, one that was utterly forced and sardonic in its own right. If this was his way of scaring her off, he was going to have to try harder than that.  She needed this job and a start to her own career, something independent of Joff and the way he had become such an overbearing presence in her life.

The man furrowed his brow at her smile and, perhaps unwittingly, licked his bottom lip.  He motioned his head back down the hall, bidding her to lead the way. As she went, Sansa became aware of hisheavy stare once more, probably admiring her ass as he followed behind. _God, I should have worn dress pants._

In the openness of the front area, Sansa let out a silent breath she had been holding.  Between the close confines of the hallway and the way Mr. Clegane had been staring at her, she realized only now that her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning with a subtle heat.

“Do you have a break room here?” she asked as her eyes scanned the open area. 

“I usually work through lunch,” Mr. Clegane asserted before opening a large, double-door closet to reveal a makeshift break area. “Fridge, microwave, coffee pot, and that K-Cup thing.”  It was a meager set-up, but it would do.   

Sansa nodded her head and caught sight of Mr. Clegane eying the Keurig with obvious disdain.  His lip curled subtly into a snarl as the machine became the source of his glowering.

“So you’re not a Keurig fan, huh?” she laughed, settling in by his side and sweeping her eyes up to him with a gentle smile.

“No,” he grunted. As he stared down at her, Sansa could have sworn she saw the good side of his mouth lift ever so slightly in what looked to be a wry smile. 

“But you are a coffee drinker, right?” she pressed, voice inflecting softly at the end.  Perhaps with a bit of time and encouragement, the man might warm up to her.

“Yes, I like black coffee,” he answered on a monotone, almost bored voice.

_Perhaps not…_

“My dad and brothers like it that way too. Well, older brothers, that is. I’m more of a tea person myself. Peppermint and lemon tea are my favorites,” Sansa divulged merrily. She was determined to make the best of the situation. Even if he didn’t offer her a job, she could at least try to make her time here pleasant for both of them.

“Use it, don’t use it.  I could really care less.”  Once more, he regarded her with something between irritation and apathy. The man was clearly uninterested in anything that resembled small talk.

“Oh! I wasn’t complaining,” Sansa quickly clarified. “I was…just…” She let the words die on her tongue as he quirked an eyebrow at her before continuing with work-related matters. 

“Part of your job would be to answer phones. For today, all calls will be forwarded to me.  If I’m not here, take a message. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Sansa nodded her head. “Is there something you would like for me to do in the mean time? Anything I can help you with?”

Without a word, Mr. Clegane disappeared into his office and Sansa wondered if she had once again annoyed him with her questions. It seemed rather silly to her. How could he expect anyone to fall right into the scheme of things without asking questions?  Before she could ponder Mr. Clegane’s peculiarities much further, he reemerged from his office with a stack of folders, which he plopped down on her desk. 

“File these. The cabinet is there,” he effectually commanded with a nod of his head towards a filing cabinet. “It’s alphabetical by the first three letters of the client’s last name or company. On the computer, look at reports and get a feel for how they’re written. That would be another part of your job – to help me organize the information I get into reports.”

“You got it,” was Sansa’s response, but Mr. Clegane likely didn’t hear her.  No sooner had he given her tasks for the day than he was already retreating into his office, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Dumbfounded and a bit perplexed, Sansa stood at the center of the room, scanning her surroundings and wondering how she could have possibly irritated him so much by doing so little. Was he angry that she was late? He had said on the phone to be on time and that he didn’t like waiting, but could that be the source of his stoic reserve and cold demeanor? Was he always going to be like that or was it just a mood he was in?

She tried not to think about it as she did what he had asked her – no, _told_ her – to do. By noon, she had filed all twelve of the manila folders, had read through a handful of reports, taking careful notes on how they were organized, and she had even wiped out the microwave and refrigerator to kill time. When her stomach began to grumble, she pulled a granola bar and a bag of carrots out of her purse. As she chomped on her snacks, she could hear the deep rumble of Mr. Clegane’s voice coming from his office. She had intermittently heard it throughout the day as he took phone calls.  It was somehow soothing and Sansa found herself listening, not so much to the words he was saying, but to the sounds as he spoke, his matter-of-fact tone, and even his grumbling laugh which she had heard a few times.

The day passed slowly and Sansa entertained the idea of calling Mr. Clegane’s line to see what else she could help him with. Certainly, there had to be _something_ else he needed done. Before she could work up the courage to pick up the phone, the door to his office was flung open and Mr. Clegane came barreling through with a laptop bag thrown over his shoulder.

“I’ve got an off-site meeting,” he declared as he stood in front of Sansa’s desk. “I’ll be back in a few hours. The phones are on you.”

Sansa watched as he produced a piece of paper, folded neatly into quarters, from his pocket.  He pressed the paper down onto her desk with the tips of his fingers and slid it slowly towards her. 

“This is my cell phone number in case something happens,” he explained.  Sansa took the paper and tucked it against her palm, curling her fingers securely around it.

“Anything short of a fire, you’re not to call this number, understood?” he added firmly, his words backed by the insistence of his eyes on her. 

“Understood,” Sansa agreed with a nod. “Have a good meeting, Mr. Clegane, and don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort,” she assured him as he hurried towards the door. 

“Thanks.” He stopped momentarily, turning faintly to look at her, as if he might say something else.  She smiled, inexplicably nervous as he matched her eyes and gave a nod before rushing out the door.

The hours went by agonizingly slow. Sansa tried to read through more reports, but found her eyes growing heavy with fatigue. She fielded a few phone calls, texted Arya and Margaery to let them know how things were going, and checked her emails. As the clock neared five, Sansa wondered when Mr. Clegane would return.  It had been more than a few hours and Joff had already sent her an angry text demanding to know when to pick her up.  She nearly had to beg him to come get her so that she wouldn’t have to walk home through this neighborhood. Tonight was his poker night and, if she didn’t get off work soon, he had threatened that she would walk anyway. 

After forty minutes, and two more livid texts from Joff, Sansa finally heard the metallic clang of keys from the other side of the door. Mr. Clegane bounded across the room in long strides, offering Sansa a silent nod by way of greeting. She waited a few moments for him to come back out and ask if anything remarkable happened while he was away. After a few minutes of no such inquiry, Sansa stood up from her desk.  With her written messages in hand, she slowly made her way to the door of Mr. Clegane’s office, which he had left open. 

Inside, he was already hard at work, tapping against his keyboard with eyes narrowed at his computer screen. As Sansa carefully eased into his office in quiet steps, she knew he didn’t notice her, or, if he did, he was choosing to her ignore her.  It wasn’t until she had reached the edge of his desk that he finally glanced in her direction. He looked exhausted and stressed out, his jaw perpetually clenched. 

“There were two calls while you were away,” Sansa began timidly. “I handled what questions I could and took down the names and numbers for you to call them back.”

Mr. Clegane swiveled in his chair, reaching across his desk for the paper in Sansa’s hand.  After she handed it to him, he studied it for many long, silent moments. She was certain she had missed something, that there was some other piece of information he expected her to have written down.  Instead, he nodded his head before lifting his eyes to her.  Something seemed to soften then.  He stared at the note appreciatively with the same small, steady nodding of his head, as if he were surprised she hadn’t made a mess of things in his absence.

“Good,” was all he said and, for Sansa, it was enough.

“I filed everything and spent the day looking over reports,” she continued, hoping he’d catch her drift.

He said nothing, only nodded once more as he lifted his eyes to her impatiently, as if wondering what she was doing still hovering in front of his desk.

“It’s almost five thirty.  My boyfriend is on his way to pick me up. Is that alright?”

“If you’ve done everything I asked you, then yes,” he responded tepidly as he swiveled back towards the computer screen.

Sansa turned to walk away, crestfallen though she couldn’t say why.  She hoped he might want to speak with her about the job now that the day was drawing to an end. It seemed he was all too happy to see her go, perhaps finding her not such a good fit for the position after all.

“Will he always be picking you up?” he asked after she had taken a few steps towards the door. Sansa turned around, expecting to find him still distractedly typing or shuffling through papers. Instead, he had turned towards her, arms crossed tightly about his chest as he stared at her.

“No, just for tonight I asked him to since I don’t know this neighborhood very well. I didn’t want to walk home and get lost.”

“Will you always be walking? I mean, do you not have a car?” he pressed further, agitated though she couldn’t possibly imagine why. What did it matter how she got here as long as she got here on time?

“I do, it’s just I live less than a mile away so I thought that-”

“I told you we work weird hours - long nights, early mornings,” Mr. Clegane abruptly interrupted.  “I asked if that was going to be a problem and you said it wasn’t.”

Though he certainly wasn’t raising his voice at her, it was the most she had gotten from him all day.  He had seemed blithely uninterested in her comings and goings, what she was or was not doing with her time.  In fact, she didn’t understand why he even wanted a secretary in the first place if he just planned on ignoring her half of the time and tossing attitude her direction the other half. 

”It won’t be a problem,” Sansa huffed in her own irritation. “I’ll get here on time.  I’m sorry I was late this morning.  If I have to drive, I will.”  

“What? I wasn’t talking about this morning,” Mr. Clegane shook his head, brow folded in apparent confusion. He drew in a deep breath before continuing. And when he did continue, his voice had quieted and he regarded her with a forced sort of gentleness - a bull suddenly aware of its place in a china shop. “Look, what I meant to say and I guess it didn’t come out right, is that you shouldn’t be walking alone at night in this neighborhood. I know it’s only a mile, but it’s a mile in a bad part of town.”

“Okay,” Sansa nodded with a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Clegane.”  

With the matter settled and Sansa truly touched by the sentiment, the tension between them should have dissipated. Instead, she found her heart thrumming in her chest as it had been before.  And, just as before, Mr. Clegane’s gaze settled on her with the same weightiness, as if he meant to speak, but couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. But then, she gathered he didn’t mean to speak at all.  Their eyes met and neither looked away to seek reprieve from a different sort of tension that was now rising.

Sansa’s cheek flared with a familiar blush and Mr. Clegane quickly licked his bottom lip.  He was a strange man, but intriguing nonetheless. Sansa sensed there was more churning beneath the surface than he let on.  It fueled her curiosity in a way she hadn’t anticipated and maybe that was why she found herself unable to look away from him, to drop her eyes in a demure gesture of courtesy.  

Outside, loud honking sounded out from the alley below.

“Is that him?” Mr. Clegane rasped, shifting his gaze towards the window.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Sansa answered with a dull nod. Her stomach knotted with dread at the sound of Joff’s blaring horn.

Mr. Clegane let out a derisive snort before shaking his head.

“Have a good night,” he grumbled before turning to his work once more.

“You too, Mr. Clegane.”

Sansa retreated from his office and gathered her belongings from the desk.  The knot in her stomach deepened as her phone lit up with a call from Joff. She closed her eyes and tossed the phone back into her purse. He would taunt her upon finding out her day hadn’t ended with a job offer. He would laugh in her face and remind her in the days to come that he had been right all along.

“Sansa,” Mr. Clegane called out before she had reached the front door.  It was the first time he had spoken her name all day.  Had he been watching her this whole time from his desk? Could he see the despondence, the hesitance as she gathered her things? She made her way back to his office where she stood in the doorway.

“You start on Monday,” he declared blankly, fingers steepled beneath his chin and elbows resting on his desk.

“On Monday?” Sansa repeated gleefully. “So you’re giving me the job?”

She couldn’t help the smile blooming across her lips, her spirits suddenly soaring to new heights. He responded with a small nod of his head.

“But only if you quit with the ‘Mr. Clegane’ shit. My name is Sandor.”

In an instant, Sansa was unconcerned about the insistent blaring of Joff’s horn or the way her phone was vibrating like crazy in her purse. 

“Thank you,” she nearly sighed with sweet relief. “Thank you, Sandor,” she corrected with a gentle laugh.   

“It’s no problem,” he countered. “Have a good weekend.”

As he turned back towards his work, Sansa could see that both ends of Sandor’s lips – marred and unmarred alike – were curled into an unmistakable smile, small though it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for the warm response to the prologue of this story! I'm so excited for this fic and have all sorts of ideas for it :)


	3. Murmur

 

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

_Chapter Three: Murmur_

* * *

 

The first week had been surprisingly painless. Sandor fully expected the annoyance of  having to show the girl how to do damn near everything, anticipated a slew of stupid questions, and dreaded whatever annoying habits she possessed but hadn't yet revealed.   

The girl certainly wasn’t stupid.  She hit the ground running, asked all the right questions, and even jotted down notes as he gave his answers. By her second week, she had proven herself to be competent and levelheaded.  She even seemed to have grown a thick skin around him and he saw early on the wolfish look she'd shoot him when he pushed her too far. In those times, she kept her interactions professional, but he could sense that, beneath her saccharine smile, she was seething with unspoken retorts. 

Now in her third week, it was apparent that they had both made the necessary adjustments in working with one another; she took his brusque demeanor in stride and he made efforts to tame himself for her sake. He had taken to calling her “little bird,” a moniker that was meant to mock the way she chirped professional courtesies at him, even when he knew he was being a prick.

Like clockwork, the one habit she possessed – the one that was driving him crazy – had been revealed.

Within the confines of his own mind, Sandor had always ridiculed his former secretaries’  choice of dress – all those hideous and tacky old lady outfits. With Sansa, he found  himself unable to take his eyes off of her for far different reasons. It wasn’t that she  intentionally wandered into his office with skirts, dresses, and tops hugging her body in  all the right places. At least, he didn’t think it was intentional on her part. Regardless,   the result was still the same. He caught himself daydreaming about things he shouldn’t  and then growing agitated by the distraction. 

Still, there was no denying the girl had legs for days and it was only natural that he should admire them as she crossed and uncrossed them at her desk. Of course, the sway of her hips hadn't escaped his attention either, especially when she sauntered into his office.  And when she sauntered on out, his gaze instinctively went to her ass, which was damn near perfection, he had decided. Then there were those moments when he swore she knew what she was doing; those moments when she was bent over, thumbing through files at the filing cabinet and her top had ridden dangerously low across her chest, showcasing the luscious curve of gorgeous tits, which were rivaled only by legs for fucking days and that perfect ass.

She was becoming a distraction to him. From his desk, he had clear sight of her and all the little things she did that were utterly enticing: the way she twirled her hair around her fingers while reading, the way she unwittingly brushed her finger tips over her collar bone in slow, lingering motions, as if she enjoyed her own touch, the way she bit her lip when confused or deep in thought. He didn’t quite mind when she made her way into his office, smiling sweetly and always asking him before she left if there was anything he wanted. With his thoughts suddenly thrust into the realm of the inappropriate, he’d shake his head with a frown and ask her to shut his door on the way out. This didn’t stop him from thinking about it long after she left his office and it was enough to make his cock half-hard from all the delicious possibilities to her sweet little question. It had become apparent the only reasonable solution to this predicament was to keep his door shut.

When he acknowledged her this morning with his usual greeting - a nod and a mumbled "Good morning, little bird" - he noticed the faint smile that graced her lips. It seemed she had grown to appreciate his nickname for her. "Good morning, Sandor," was her response and he liked the way his name sounded coming from her mouth. 

Now settled at his desk - his coffee on one side of him, blackberry on the other, and his inbox cleared of new emails - he plucked a manila folder from a stack of case files. Just as he was about to dive in, a faint murmuring sounded from the other side of the wall where the copy room was located.

  “I already did that. So why are you not working?”

  It was Sansa’s voice and it was accompanied by an insistent banging. The walls of the  building were paper-thin and yet another thing that used to annoy the ever-loving fuck out him was how he could  easily hear everything that went on in the copy room. He had often heard Susan humming  some god-awful tunes in there, ones that would inevitably get stuck in his head for the  rest of the day.

“No! Stop saying there’s a jam! I just fixed it.”  

Chuckling at her frustrations carrying through the wall, Sandor finally pushed himself  from his desk and headed towards the copy room. It was there he found Sansa on her knees in front of the copier amongst pieces of mangled paper. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held firmly in place with a pencil. She chewed her bottom lip and furrowed her brow at the user manual resting in her lap.

"What’d you do to it?” Sandor inquired gruffly as he leaned against the doorframe. 

Lifting a doe-eyed stare to him, Sansa gave a small pout of her lips. He could see that her fingertips were black from the toner cartridge and there was a smear of grey across her cheek where she had inadvertently swiped her fingertips.

  “I didn’t do anything!” she haughtily asserted. “I replaced the toner cartridge and I’m pretty sure I put it in right, but now it jams whenever I print anything.”  

“Let me see.”  

Sandor eased into the small room and when he crouched down next to her, she scooted out of the way. The space was cramped as he stared into the innards of the machine and he was more than faintly aware that she was leaning towards him, peering into the copier.    

“Here’s the manual.” 

Sansa offered him the tome of useless information, but Sandor shook his head firmly, smirking as he debated whether or not to tell her about the toner on her cheek.

  “I don’t need a manual,” he contended, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “My guess is you put the cartridge in wrong.”

Sandor could see from the periphery of his vision that the girl’s lips were pursed into a pout again. She huffed in stubborn frustration before her gaze landed on the tattoos of his forearms. Her polished manners likely bid her eyes to dart away, but curiosity brought them back when she  thought he was too preoccupied to notice. Her blatant staring didn't escape him.   It was hard not to notice as she hovered next to him.

He often forgot that his secretaries weren’t used to seeing him in clothes that revealed his tattoos. He had once strolled into the office after hitting the gym and realizing he left his cell phone on his desk. Susan had nearly fallen out of her chair when she saw the tattoos that adorned the length of his arms and extended down the sides of his torso and back, all revealed by the sleeveless and tattered T-shirt he wore.  

“I did not put the toner in wrong,” Sansa insisted weakly, embarrassment creeping in if the color of her cheeks was anything to go by. When he turned to her, she licked her lips, which then parted to draw in breath. “I used the manual.”

  Sandor let out a snarling laugh at that, one which seemed to startle her. He took the manual from her hands and chucked it down the hallway behind him.

  “The manual gets you nowhere, girl,” Sandor goaded though he was still smirking and still wondering when to tell her she looked like a hot mess. She would take it the wrong way. She would think he was teasing her, but in reality there was something incredibly attractive about the wisps of hair escaping from the pencil’s haphazard hold and the fact that her skirt was now wrinkled and riding up her thighs. “A waste of time is all that is,” he added as a murmured afterthought before turning back to the copier, eyes peering into its mechanical belly.   

Sandor threw his weight into the machine to dislodge the cartridge. It budged a bit and he persisted until the thing popped out, revealing it had, indeed, been put in the wrong way. When he pulled away from the machine, he found Sansa sitting nearly flush to him, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she examined his work. She turned to him with a smile of gratitude before scandalized by their apparent closeness, a few inches between them.

“Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed on a small gasp. “I just wanted to see what you did.” 

She tucked the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears, eyes fixed on him and her mouth curled into a grateful smile.

“Go print something,” he said on a deep, quiet breath.

Sansa  pushed herself to her feet and headed back down the hall. A few moments later, sheets  of paper glided out of the copier with effortless ease. Sandor grabbed the printouts and  headed for the front area.

Sansa was leaning against the edge of her desk, one long leg crossed in front of the other. When he approached she stood, smoothing down her skirt, which she now realized was wrinkled.  Her hair had been readjusted too, loose strands tucked and pined back. Sandor reached around her, tossing the papers down on her desk.

“So did I really put the cartridge in wrong?” she asked haltingly

“Looks like it,” he retorted with a motioning of his head towards the papers.

“Go ahead. Say it,” she demanded, but she didn’t look at him.  Instead, her gaze hovered steadily towards the window across the room. Sweet though she was, the little bird had her pride and Sandor couldn’t quite blame her for that. 

“I’m not saying shit,” he grumbled and strode towards his office. He turned over his shoulder and found her looking at him with arms crossed about her chest, chewing her bottom lip to suppress a smile and with the look in her eye that suggested she liked the banter they had established. “Except that you’ve got toner on your cheek.”

He didn’t linger long enough to see if her eyes had gone wolfish or if she blushed like mad. Instead, he shut his office door behind him and returned to his desk. For long moments, the case file in front of him went neglected. His door was shut and all the tantalizing things Sansa Stark might be doing right now were hidden from his view.  The distractions had followed him in and the barrier between them could do nothing to stop it.

Eventually, the sound of her heels clicking down the hall drew his attention further from the case file. With a small, devious smile, Sandor opened a new email.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 **To:** Stark, Sansa  <sstark@cis.com>

 **From:** Clegane, Sandor <sclegane@cis.com>

 **Subject:** little bird

I told you so…

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The mouse hovered over the send button, faltering because he’d never sent emails like this to his previous secretaries.  Contrary to all their departing words that he was insufferable and harsh, Sandor did have a sense of humor, though it was dry and mocking. They likely would have taken him seriously and took his jabs to be further evidence that he was a dick. As such, he always erred on the side of professionalism. Always. 

But he liked to fuck with Sansa.  He liked the way her cheeks blazed red, eyes went wide, and her pretty little mouth dangled open at his audacity or, as of late, curled into a smile.

_You’re playing with fire._

Bred from the place that urged him to keep business matters professional, Sandor tapped the backspace button until the message disappeared.  

It didn’t stop him from watching the cursor blink, though, and it certainly didn’t stop his fingers from typing the message again. Once more, the mouse hovered over send and the rigmarole commenced until he exited out of the email for good and condemned it to the trash folder.

 _I don’t have time for this shit. I’ve got work to do,_ he thought with a sigh and turned back to the case file in front of him. 

A moment later, the murmuring on the other side of the wall came again, only this time it was different.  It wasn’t Sansa talking to the copier, demanding it cooperate with her. Instead, it sounded as if she were on the phone and had mistaken the copy room for a private refuge to take personal calls. 

“Hi babe. What’s going on? Oh! I’m so excited to try that new restaurant tonight!”

Her voice, cheerful and sweet, drifted in and Sandor rolled his eyes with a snort. _Must be that obnoxious boyfriend of hers_. 

While he hadn’t formally met the guy yet, Sandor had seen him speed up a few times in his blacked out Mercedes, bass bumping and horn blaring for Sansa to come down. The change in Sansa’s demeanor was noticeable then. From across the office, Sandor could see that when her douche canoe boyfriend rolled up, her body would stiffen and her face would suddenly contort into a frown. She’d wish him a good night, but for all the artificial sugar behind her smile, the dread was still apparent. Then there were the nights he asked her to stay late and help him catch up on paper work. The girl would light up like a goddamn Christmas tree, glittering eyes and a smile that beamed, and Sandor wasn’t so dumb to think that it was because she actually enjoyed being around him.  

“No, after I get off work. That was the plan.”

Through the wall, Sandor picked up on the quiver, which ran through her voice, and the cheerfulness now obliterated.  

“I have to work late tonight. Remember? We talked about this yesterday.”

_Get back to work. This is none of your business._

There it was again - the call to professionalism, which brought with it a certain measure of guilt.  He felt guilty for listening to her conversation. He told himself he didn’t want to be part of her petty arguments with her boyfriend and, to prove he meant it, Sandor reached for his iPod. Blasting Motörheadseemed like a reasonable solution and, had his ear buds been in, it would’ve worked like a charm to drown out the sound of Sansa’s voice now on the precipice of tears.

“That’s a very hurtful thing to say.”

Swept up in the changing tide of the conversation, the ear buds and iPod dropped to his desk as Sandor leaned back in his chair. Now some half-assed call to chivalry was excuse enough to listen, though he didn’t quite know what exactly he could do to help matters. 

“Don’t call me that!” Sansa’s distress was evident as her voice raised in uncharacteristic volume and vitriol. “No. I’m not stupid, Joff, and I’m not a bitch. I’ve been upfront about all of this. I have to work late sometimes.”

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…_

Sandor drew in a slow, deep breath and clenched his fist. A part of him wished he hadn’t heard it, that he was blissfully unaware as Lemmy Kilmister crooned into his ears.  The other part of him wanted to barrel down the hall, rip the phone from Sansa’s hand, and set the motherfucker she was talking to straight.  Sandor had been in service with guys like Sansa’s boyfriend. They were always the douche bags who sent home photos of themselves in some faux badass pose, M-16 in their hands and cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Inevitably, though, they’d come back from missions shell-shocked and with shit-stains on their ACU’s. They were nothing at the end of the day, but for a girl like Sansa, that didn’t mean much. A guy like her boyfriend would terrorize her anyway. 

“I can’t talk about this now. I’m at work. We can talk more at dinner.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation before Sansa spoke again, softer and with a pained sadness in her voice.

“Fine. Yeah, I’ll plan for dinner alone then. I’ll see you whenever I see you, I guess.”

Sandor strained to listen, but nothing more was coming from the copy room. The call had ended. Of the many distractions that had infiltrated his office despite the closed door, it was now the silence that drew his attention furthest away from his work. He had expected to hear the sound of Sansa’s heels clicking back down the hall and the creaking of her chair as she sat down at her desk.

Ten minutes went by. Ten minutes of distractedly drafting an email to a client while his mind drifted elsewhere. Ten minutes of coming up with a grand plan of printing something to the copier, instead of his desktop printer, so that he’d have an excuse to check on her. He heard her retreat after those ten minutes - heels clicking and chair creaking and he hoped, that during that time, she had been messing with the copier or perhaps restocking office supplies.

 _None of my business,_ Sandor reminded himself, though it felt like a lie. He had made it his business and invited this particular distraction. 

She was back at her desk and Sandor was left to wonder what she was doing. _The McKenzie file,_ he remembered.  It wasn’t on his desk and prior to the copier debacle he had meant to ask Sansa if she had it. He didn’t have to work on it.  Really, he just wanted to make sure he hadn’t left it at home, but it was excuse enough to wander from his office. 

Out in the front area, Sansa was staring at her computer screen, fingers tapping against the keyboard without so much as a glance in his direction. She had let her hair down and had wiped her cheek clean of the toner. The guilt came creeping in and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t sent her that email. 

He approached her desk cautiously; not in the hard, bounding strides he normally took. Her shoulders stiffened and her back straightened as he loomed over her with hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Do you have that McKenzie file?”

He made sure to speak gently, as much as his voice would allow, smoothing down the edges of his words so that they came less demanding. 

“Yes,” she nearly whispered. 

With her eyes downturned, Sansa fumbled through stacks of paperwork before handing him the manila folder.  Even as the folder dangled from her fingertips, she still refused to look at him. He took the folder, studying her intently as she clicked between various documents on the computer screen and snatched up her pen as if to write something.  Sandor knew this game. He wrote the book on it. She wasn’t busy, only putting up appearances so that he wouldn’t notice something was wrong or maybe so that he would leave her alone. 

He retreated because it was the right thing to do, if that was what she wanted. When he reached his door, lingering beneath the frame, he caved into the nagging urge that bid him to turn back towards her. When he did, he could see that Sansa was no longer typing, but instead staring at her hands resting on the keyboard.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he began against better judgment. “But my office shares a wall with the copy room.”

Before he could finish and preemptively explain that he had “accidentally” overheard bits of her conversation, Sansa’s head snapped up and her face paled as she stared at him, mortified. He could see now that her eyes were puffy and red, clearly the result of her crying. 

“Oh god,” she breathed, shaking her head as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m really sorry. I won’t take personal calls during work hours anymore.”

He thought she might be angry that he had overheard and knew that she would certainly be embarrassed.  Her apology left him perplexed. Sandor shifted awkwardly as he clutched the file in his hands.

“You can take as many personal calls as you want, Sansa. That wasn’t my concern.”

He sighed as he spoke and ran a hand through his hair.  She stared up at him, eyes still glistening as she fought back more tears.

“He’s just having a bad day, I think.  It will blow over,” she assured with a shrug of the shoulders. Sansa smiled, though tears were running down her cheeks.  Just as fervently as she tried to make herself appear busy, she was trying to patch over her hurts with false reassurances. 

There were a great many things Sandor wanted to say to her.  For starters, things never just “blew over”. If they were bad now, they would continue to be bad.  It wasn’t his place, though, and it wasn’t his business.  Instead, he only nodded his head – false reassurance in it’s own right because he didn’t truly believe all she was saying and he certainly didn’t believe for one second that this was the first or last time her dipshit boyfriend talked to her that way. 

He headed for the “break room” closet and pulled out a box of tissues from the cabinet. She swiped at tears on her cheeks and he stood in front of her desk once more, realizing that this would be the time to offer her some comfort, but words of comfort probably didn’t mean much coming from him.  So instead, he placed the box of tissues down in front of her and said the only thing that came to mind.  

“I’ll leave my door open.”

Sansa licked at the tears rolling over her lips, which were a pink and plump from crying and strangely enticing now.

She nodded her head gratefully at his invitation, though she never did take him up on it.  In many ways, he was grateful for that.  He never quite knew what to say when women cried in front of him. He figured his best shot at anything resembling comfort was just to keep his mouth shut. He was used to secretaries sobbing in his office as they quit. Those were always awkward moments, filled with guilt and silence on his end.

Sansa’s tears were a whole other issue. When she continued to sit quietly at her desk, submerging herself in work by way of distraction, Sandor thought it was perhaps for the best, though he couldn’t stop his eyes from lifting, certain he might find her crying into a tissue.

Instead, he’d find her twirling her hair, stroking her collarbone, or biting her lip. Only once did she catch him looking at her. As she read a report, her fingertips had inadvertently slipped from her collarbone and across the top of her bust, along the scoop-necked hem of her shirt. As if suddenly aware of where her fingers had wandered, Sansa eyes flickered up.  She blushed and Sandor averted his gaze as a steady heat rolled over him.

He tapped at his keyboard and the charade went on, pretending that his gaze had landed on her by accident. He could tell she was still staring at him, though, and he couldn’t help, but let his eyes roam back in that direction. She offered a small smile and her cheeks were flushed as she turned to her keyboard, biting at her lip.

When the sound of rush hour traffic began to filter in from outside and some semblance of work was finally underway, Sansa appeared at his door, rapping her knuckles lightly to get his attention as she entered.

“I’ve finished the reports you wanted me to work on first,” she told him, setting the files down on his desk in an orderly stack. “How many more are left?”

“Three, minus the one I’m working on now,” Sandor replied as he stretched, sighing softly as his back popped. “I figure we’ve probably got another two hours worth of work on these.”  

Sandor paused briefly as Sansa stood quietly with her hands folded together in front of her and a wan smile painted across her lips. 

“I was thinking of ordering in Chinese,” he began, twirling a pen in one hand and scrolling through his inbox with the other. “You know, since we’ll be here late.” _And since that cocksucker you’re with doesn’t have the decency to eat dinner with you…_

When she hadn’t spoken, he shifted a glance in her direction. By the way she held his stare and the forlorn smile bloomed into a sincere grin, as if he were some sort of savior to her loneliness, he knew she understood the subtext, the words he left unspoken.

The space between them grew thick and heavy with those words. Sansa began to shift from side to side, waiting for him to say something else, to give her work to do although, in all reality, she could probably head home. He could handle three case files on his own, but he remembered now how she lit up when he asked he to stay late, how it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the ass-hat she didn’t want to go home to.

“I want to start showing you how the cases work on my end.  I think I could bring you with me on some of them. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, I really would.”

Her eyes flooded with gratitude because, while one man told her she was stupid and had made her believe it, Sandor knew that was a shit-covered lie. She was intelligent, that was plain to see, and needed to be reminded of it every so often.

“Alright, grab a chair and come around on my side of the desk.”

With Sansa settled next to him, Sandor spent the next hour reverse engineering a case he had been working on.  He explained the intricacies, the way he went about rounding up pertinent information, the role of logic and intuition – how they both played an equally important part to the job. Sansa listened intently and interjected here and there to ask questions.  She jotted down his answers and Sandor was surprised by her thorough interest.

Beyond that, she was a natural at connecting the dots and seeing how seemingly unrelated bits of information sometimes held the key to important leads. On multiple occasions, she offered suggestions of things that Sandor hadn’t quite considered. In those moments, he found himself floored by the things she was coming up within – her insights and perspective, though different than his own, had obvious value to the case.

When Sansa would realize that Sandor was staring at her – listening in earnest to her input – she’d suddenly grow timid.  Her eyes would flutter away from him, as if afraid he might shoot down her ideas. When he’d praise her or encourage her train of thoughts along further, her face would light up once more and she’d veritably gush with all her insights.

When his stomach began to grumble, he set aside the work and ordered in their dinner. They sat across from one another at his desk, sharing their meal amongst light conversation about where they were from, what brought them to the city, and what they liked to do outside of work. When he learned that Sansa was still relatively new to town, Sandor rattled off a list of places she needed to check out – museums, restaurants, and bars. The two hours worth of work that he previously predicted had somehow turned into three and a half hours, but neither of them seemed to mind.

“How long were you in the military?” Sansa asked as she nibbled at a crab rangoon and motioned her head to the shadow box displaying various medals earned during his service. He had caught her eying it throughout their meal and knew the question was eventually coming.

“I enlisted right out of high school, joined the army as military police because it seemed like an interesting job. I deployed in 2004.  When I came back, I went to Fort Leonard Wood for MPI training, which is basically investigative work.  I did three more tours and got out after I had put in twelve years. That’s when I opened the business. I’ve been running it for five years now.”

Sandor turned a glance towards his medals hanging on the wall behind him. He remembered the surprise with each of them when he learned he was the recipient.  He had done his job.  End of story. But he accepted each medal, each award, and each promotion with gratitude and pride.  

“Do you miss being in the military?” Sansa seemed to have deciphered the nostalgia written on his face.  She was smiling softly at him, head slightly turned to the side and chopsticks hovering over her noodles.

“Sometimes,” he shrugged. “It was a lot of sitting around and patrolling. I don’t miss that stuff.  I do miss going out on missions. Those were an adrenaline rush.”

“Well, I’m glad you came back safe.” She smiled again, holding his gaze momentarily, before twirling the chopsticks in her Lo Mein.  “What about your tattoos?”

That was the other thing she had been ceaselessly catching glimpses of all night. He hadn’t thought to roll his sleeves back down and the curiosity seemed to be driving her wild. In all, her sudden interest in these things came as a bit of a surprise to him.  Usually, his secretaries didn’t give a flying fuck what he was all about. Then again, Sansa was proving to be different than all the others.

“What about them?” Sandor retorted, following her eyes to the ones on his forearms.

“Do you have a lot of them?” Sansa pressed timidly. 

“Both arms, my back, and down the sides of my torso. Most of them I’ve gotten since I’ve been out of the military.”  It had been one of the first things he did after being released from active duty, finishing off one of his sleeves as a way to signify that period of his life.  

“I like tattoos,” Sansa chattered cheerfully. “On other people, that is. I’d never get one, but whenever someone has tattoos, I always demand to see them. I just think it’s cool.  I like knowing where they have them, what they’re of, what’s the story behind them.”

When she finished, Sandor lifted one eyebrow at her, one that seemed to confuse her as she remained blissfully aware of all she had said and continued to merrily nibble at her noodles.  

“Are you wanting me to take my shirt off or something?” he ventured playfully.

“Oh god! That’s not what I meant,” Sansa corrected, dropping her chopsticks and burying her face in her hands in embarrassment. “No. You don’t need to take your shirt off. I’m sure everything looks very nice.” Her words came muffled and she pulled her hands away, drawing in a breath before continued. “I mean, tattoo-wise. Nice, as far as tattoos go.”

“You alright over there? Having some problems?” Sandor joked through a hearty laugh, one that started in his belly and erupted through his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like that.

“Yes! I’m fine. Let’s just read our fortunes.”  Sansa snatched up the cellophane-wrapped cookies, cheeks burning red and eyes watering from her own laughter. 

“Why? The fortunes are always such bullshit.” Sandor scoffed.

“No, you have to read it.  Come on! It’s all part of the Chinese take-out experience,” Sansa insisted, bouncing in her seat a bit as she pouted her bottom lip.

“Fine,” he relented, catching the cookie in the air as she tossed it to him.  He ripped open the wrapper, crumbled the cookie in his fist, and unfolded the white paper.  “Someone special will enter your life soon,” he read out loud.

Sansa gave a tiny squeal as she clapped her hands together, obviously delighted by his “future” prospects.

“Total bullshit.” Sandor rolled his eyes and tossed the fortune into the brown paper bag their dinner arrived in.

“No, I think it’s sweet,” Sansa cooed softly before growing quiet.

Her gazed was fixed into the container of Lo Mein and she stirred the noodles with the end of her chopsticks. “Is there a special someone already?” she prodded shyly before lifting a stare through her lashes.

The question was unexpected. Only intermittently did their topics of discussion veer towards personal matters.  Most of the evening was just small talk.  Sandor huffed out a small laugh, suddenly feeling awkward and under-the-gun.

“There is. Isn’t there?” Sansa egged him on with a delicate laugh.

Amused by her sudden interest in the matter, Sandor shrugged his shoulders as he suppressed a smile.

“Well, tell me about her! Who is she?”

Sandor reached for a container of white rice, suddenly unable to match Sansa’s eager eyes. Even still, he could feel her watching him, following his movements and studying him with renewed and delighted interest.

“Just a girl I met a couple months ago. Nothing serious.” His tone was casual in an effort to dissuade her interest. 

When he finally lifted his eyes to Sansa, she had cocked one eyebrow at him, obviously convinced that he was downplaying some torrid love affair. In reality, the girl – Annalise – had approached him at a bar one night.  They had shut down the place after sharing round after round of drinks. In a drunken haze, Sandor had taken her home for what he planned on being a one-night stand. In the morning, he found his bed empty and her number scribbled on a post-note stuck to his fridge. He had almost forgotten about her until they ran into each other again and agreed to meet up for dinner. She was nice enough, pretty enough, and smart enough. Things were kept low-key and it was the way he preferred it, but Sandor was aware, and so was Annalise, that he had been keeping her at arm’s length.

“I’m here all the time,” he reasoned firmly, glancing around his office. It was the same excuse he gave Annalise when she demanded that he let her into his life. He didn’t have to explain any of this to Sansa, but he found himself compelled to anyway. “I don’t really have a lot of room for relationships right now, not with the business picking up like it has been.”

He could tell by the way Sansa was eying him dubiously that she wasn’t buying his excuse. Polite as ever, though, she smiled and nodded her head. 

“Well, someone special is supposed to enter your life soon so you might be changing your tune.”

“I doubt it,” Sandor countered before stuffing a forkful of rice into his mouth. “Alright, Ms. Chinese Take-Out Experience, what does yours say?”

He watched as Sansa’s fingers worked open her fortune cookie, the pieces of which she tossed aside.

“The best is yet to come,” she read. 

“Bullshit!” Sandor’s voice boomed throughout the room. “That’s just a ripped off line from a Frank Sinatra song.”

Sansa gave a small, distracted laugh. She stared at the fortune resting between her fingers and shook her head, as if she expected to find answers to all her problems nestled within a stale fortune cookie that tasted like cardboard. She crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the take-out bag. Silence wore on as Sandor watched her picking at her noodles that were probably cold by now.

“The girl you’re seeing. What’s she like?” she asked then, still jabbing her chopsticks into the container.

Her curiosity on the matter puzzled him. Even more puzzling was how Sandor couldn’t quite find the words to describe Annalise.  He shrugged his shoulders before easing back in his seat and staring at the ceiling in thought.  The characteristics that were coming to mind didn’t quite fit the bill. Not for Annalise, anyway. 

“I don’t know. Sensible, maybe.” It was the only thing he could come up with and he suddenly felt guilty that he had dated a chick for two months and that was the most he could say about her.

“Sensible?” Sansa repeated, incredulously and clearly wanting for more.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he sighed.  Sandor paused momentarily, gathering the bits of what exactly he was trying to get at. “What you see is what you get with her. No drama, no complexities I have to try and figure out. Just no muss, no fuss, you know?”

The corner of Sansa’s mouth was faintly upturned and she stared at him, nodding her head softly.  

“Yeah, I know.” When she spoke, it was quietly, though no less sweet or sincere. “She sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Sandor agreed with a nod. _Nice enough._ “I say it’s about time we call it a night.  Is Justin Bieber picking you up?” He regarded her with a smirk as he pushed himself up from the chair and dumped the empty take-out containers into the trashcan.

“His name is Joffrey,” Sansa corrected through a giggle as she stood, dusting off crumbs from her lap. She beamed in a way he never saw in her at the end of a late night.  Usually, she grew quiet, only speaking long enough to wish him goodnight.  In good spirits, she laughed because it probably wasn’t often she got to do so at her boyfriend’s expense. “No, I drove myself tonight.”

“I’ll walk you to your car then.”

They went through the usual motions of closing up the office for the night. Files were locked away in cabinets, computers shut down, and lights turned off.  He walked with her the block and a half to the lot she parked in. They stopped at the red Jetta she drove and Sandor waited as she fished her keys out of her purse.

“Well,” she began, keys dangling from her fingertips. “Thank you for dinner, Sandor.”

She smiled and regarded him with her usual kindness, but her eyes held a loneliness he only fleetingly saw and a reluctance that was there at the end of every single day.

 _She doesn’t want to go home,_ he remarked to himself. And neither would he if some entitled asshole lived in his apartment.

“Look, it’s all gonna be okay.  Things tend to work out in the ways you need them to.  It’s kind of like that Rolling Stones song.”  

He had no idea why he said it, other than he meant it. He half expected her to look at him strangely or ask what the hell he was talking about. Instead, she let out a soft laugh before singing quietly, swaying lightly and smiling as she did.

“ _You can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need_. That song?” Her voice was pretty and he’d gladly stand in the parking lot with her, listening to her sing sad songs all night long, but he had to someone waiting for him at home and so did she.

“Yeah. That’s the one,” he murmured.  

They exchanged their goodnights and she waved to him when she pulled from the parking lot, smiling big and bright and leaving him to wonder if she ever smiled like that for her boyfriend. 

Stopped at a red light on his way home, Sandor dug his iPod out of his messenger bag and thumbed through his music library.  He tapped the song he was looking for and turned the volume up. For the rest of his drive, he tried to remember that if he didn’t get what he wanted, he’d at least get what he needed.   

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter! I'm so happy you all are enjoying it so far :)
> 
> I see this fic as being one giant writing exercise for me. I'm playing with my writing style a bit (how I pace things, plotting, structure, etc.) and challenging myself to include elements I don't normally in my fanfic as well as work on things that cause creative blockage. So yes, Joffrey is here. That's part of it. Also, I'm still a blushing schoolgirl about smut so I'd like to throw those inhibitions to the wind here, once and for all! In the process of this, I hope to create something that you all can enjoy :) 
> 
> One last thing...before I get crucified for Sandor having a blackberry....he has big fingers, okay? I think he'd break the shit out of an iPhone by dropping it and an android would just piss him off because of all the features and what not. 
> 
> That is all...Thank you :)


	4. Bite

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

Chapter Four -  _Bite_

* * *

 

“What are you doing? All I hear is banging in the background.”

Across the kitchen, Arya’s voice echoed from the speakerphone and the sound quickly disappeared in the open space of the loft apartment.

“I’m making brownies,” Sansa shouted in the direction of her phone sitting on top of her recipe book, well away from the puddle of spilt milk and pieces of eggshell on the granite counter.

A mixing bowl rested precariously on Sansa’s hip and she frantically stirred, not minding how bits of batter were being flung against her apron and spilling onto the floor.  If Lady were here, she’d happily lick up the batter as she weaved between Sansa’s legs.

The apartment Sansa shared with Joffrey was larger than either of them needed, but he had insisted on sparing no expense to live downtown. Joff always boasted to their friends about how trendy and modern their place was and Sansa would feign agreement with a weak smile. When they moved to the city, Sansa had her heart on a 1930s era art deco duplex on the south side of town. Joffrey refused and Sansa put up no fight. She was tired of fighting. On nights like this, when she found herself alone in the cold and austere apartment, the dull ache of homesickness would take hold. She missed her dog, her family, her old car, and even the tiny studio apartment she used to live in with its drafty windows and leaky faucets.

Wednesday nights were reserved for wine and phone chats with her sister. Arya was away at college and having the time of her life, but, despite her sister’s new boyfriend and new freedom, Sansa could sometimes detect the longing for home in Arya’s voice too.

 “Seriously? At ten o’clock at night?” Arya’s question lingered as Sansa took a gulp of chardonnay and dumped the brownie batter into a greased pan.

“Tomorrow is my boss’ birthday,” Sansa answered and threw the pan into the oven. “I thought it would be nice to bring something in.”

“Brown nosing with brownies. Nice move, sis!” Arya mocked with a laugh.

“I’m not brown nosing. Sometimes people do things out of the kindness of their hearts, Arya.” Sansa leaned against the counter and licked batter off of a spatula.

“So did your boss just announce that it’s his birthday or something?” her sister probed. 

“Well, no,” Sansa admitted quietly. “He has a subscription to this whiskey club. They sent him a birthday post card in the mail and it came to the office a few days ago. I thought that I’d surprise him.”

A heavy silence came at the other end of the phone, long enough that Sansa felt the sudden urge to defend herself. 

She had nothing to be ashamed of.  It was a normal thing to do – bringing in treats for a colleague’s birthday.  Besides, Sandor had been, in his own way, thoughtful and understanding when she and Joff got into a fight over the phone last week.  _It’s the least I can do for him,_ she assured herself, but there was a fluttering deep within the pit of her stomach and she couldn’t decide where she had felt it before.  Was it nervousness or a guilty conscience, or even both? 

“Well,” Sansa snatched up her wine glass and paced the kitchen floor. “I thought it was a nice gesture and I had to cover for Margaery’s dance class tonight and only got home an hour ago so it’s not like I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen. I mean it’s nothing really. You know me. I bake things for people all the time. Like when Loras and Renly got engaged. I baked all those cupcakes in like three hours!”

Sansa gulped down the last of her wine. She smiled to herself because her little monologue felt like a small victory, but she didn’t quite know what she was fighting for, or fighting against, for that matter. Guilt, perhaps; the guilt that was bubbling up from the pit of her stomach; the guilt that chided her for making such a production over her boss’ birthday; the guilt that suggested the production meant something and her sister was speechless on the other end of the phone, intuiting all the unspoken sentiment that went into a batch of birthday brownies. 

Arya’s breathless giggling echoed about the kitchen, followed by the muffled sound of another voice.

“What, sis? Sorry. I was talking to my roommate,” Arya apologized. “What about Loras and Renly?”

Sansa smiled to herself and felt mildly embarrassed for having gone off on a futile tangent.

“Nothing,” she sighed.

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go through for a guy who’s kind of a dick,” Arya remarked tepidly. Sansa had complained only once to her sister that Sandor could be a bit harsh at times and Arya hadn’t forgotten. Every Wednesday, she asked what Sandor had done this week and Sansa had to remind her sister that he wasn’t all that bad.

“Just don’t let Captain Cocksucker know that you’re making another dude birthday brownies, you know what I’m saying?” Arya cautioned and, although her sister didn’t know just how badly Joff treated her, Sansa heard Arya’s point loud and clear. Her eyes drifted to the clock and then to the mess she had made in the kitchen.

 _Joff said he wouldn’t be home until eleven,_ she reminded herself _._ Then again,Joffrey said a lot of things and his punctuality was as fickle as his temper. She swore that he cut his Wednesday nights at the bar short sometimes to rush home in hopes of finding Sansa engaged in scandalous behavior. Of course, it was acceptable for him to stay out all night without so much as a courtesy call, but god help her if she wasn’t home when he finally strolled through the door.

“I know what you’re saying,” Sansa nodded. “I’ve got to let you go. I need to clean up the kitchen.”

Sansa exchanged farewells with her sister and filled the sink with hot soapy water. She took her time scrubbing the dishes. She relished the heat soaking into her skin, enjoying the initial shiver that eased down her spine when she dipped her hands into the water and the way her worries seem to gradually melt away.

And why was she so worried about getting caught baking for another man? She’d baked all kinds of confections for various friends, family, and co-workers in the past and Joffrey didn’t give two-shits about it. Her guilt was unfounded and so too was her obsession over the clock when she knew damn well Joff might not even come home tonight.

 _Completely irrational,_ she told herself with a firm nod of the head, but no amount of soapy water and bogus affirmations could stave off the thought that continually surfaced; the thought she buried with distractions and forcefully shoved to the back of her mind with mundane daydreams.

_You like the way Sandor looks at you._

There it was. The thought that refused to be ignored or put at the end of the line behind ridiculous distractions and mental lists of stupid things. The bowl in her hands slipped from her fingers and plopped back into the washbasin. Water splashed from the sink and soaked the front of her apron. Sansa shook her head vehemently to dislodge the unruly thought, to beat it back in line, but the thought carried loaded truths Sansa had been quietly denying.

That truth was that Joff hardly batted an eye at her anymore. He raved about the petite blondes he worked with; how adorable and vivacious they were, bubbly and extroverted; so very interesting with their passports full of stamps from exotic places and their collections of Italian leather handbags and matching shoes. Sansa initially thought he only said those things to wound her or to set her on pins and needles if ever she grew too secure in the relationship. The more he talked of those girls, the more she was certain he meant what he said about them. To Joff, she was just boring old Sansa who didn’t own a passport and who bought her shoes at department stores in the mall.

To Sandor, though, there was more; genuine interest and not just in superficial things. He didn’t care about where she’d traveled or the brand of shoes she wore. He looked at her in a way Joff never had before, as if merely stealing glances wasn’t enough.

Heat rippled through Sansa’s body when she knew Sandor was looking. She craved the way it felt – the veritable weight of his stare pressing against her skin and the chills trickling down her spine. Sansa had begun to invite his stares. She sought them out – a moth to the flame, always wanting more. She’d lean over at the filing cabinet, looking for a file that was already on her desk, and loiter just long enough for him to get a good look at the way her pencil skirt hugged her curves. She’d exaggerate the sway of her hips as she left his office, knowing damn well his eyes were following every nuance of her movements. Her cheeks would burn hot thinking about it afterwards and shame would come creeping in, but the shame alone hadn’t stopped her.

Sansa had even thought to confess her thoughts to Margaery. They co-taught a pole dancing class on Thursdays. Last week, hanging upside down on the pole, Sansa almost blurted out that she fantasized about her boss. She refrained from her outburst, mostly because the blood was rushing to her head and making her dizzy. Marg probably would have told Sansa that her fantasy was perfectly normal and Sansa might have believed her, but what would Marg say if Sansa admitted to the thoughts she had on those days where Sandor kept his office door open?

On those days, Sansa couldn’t help her eyes from drifting over her computer monitor when Sandor’s office phone rang. He would snatch up the phone and ease back in his chair, one arm behind his head and the other pressing the receiver to his ear as he swiveled back and forth, staring at the ceiling in thought. On those days, she’d look at him and think that he looked powerful, authoritative, and strong. He dwarfed the seat he was in and spoke to clients with forceful conviction. On those days, she thought he sounded as though he liked to be in charge when he told the clients what he was going to do. Sansa would let her mind run with the thought, pondering if he always liked to be in charge. 

On one particular day, Sandor caught her watching him during his phone conversation. His eyes happened to drift towards her and his tongue ran subtly, inadvertently across his bottom lip. Sansa had decided not to look away. She kept her eyes on him as he carried on his conversation, chuckling on a deep, husky voice here and there, but he didn’t look away either. Eventually, his gaze narrowed at her and lingered intently as he slowly eased forward in his seat.

 His look had been a warning – a warning that he’d win this game, this battle of wills, and would devour her if given half the chance because he wanted her. Sansa knew it and she liked it. The game, his winning, the heat, and the warning – she liked it all.  

On that particular day, Sandor hung up his call, but did not shut his door and the looks between them continued – the heat steadily rising and the battle of wills playing out well into the afternoon. Sansa sat at her desk the remainder of that shift, trying not to think about the way her panties were wet or how badly she wanted to touch herself to relieve the ache between her legs. She had entertained wild thoughts when it became too much; the thought of going into his office and telling him that the nights she spent alone, she'd slide her hand down her stomach and slip her fingers between her legs, thinking about him burying his face there. She thought about telling him she touched herself the way she thought that he might touch her, but it was never enough. He could lick her until she shuddered, sighed, and screamed, but maybe that wouldn’t be enough either. Maybe she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was spreading her legs and gripping her hips, thrusting in and out of her and murmuring in her ear all the things he was going to do to her because he was a man who liked to be in charge and she very much liked the thought of that.

The oven beeped and Sansa realized she’d been mindlessly scrubbing the same bowl for minutes on end. A thin sheen of sweat covered her brow and she felt uncomfortably hot in her own skin. She rinsed the bowl and dropped it in the drying rack. She pulled the brownies from the oven and, after peeling out of her apron and clothes, Sansa washed her face with cold water and willed Sandor out of her thoughts for the remainder of the night. 

* * *

 The next morning Sansa arrived at the office an hour earlier than usual. With her purse and gym bag thrown over one shoulder, the Tupperware container of brownies in one hand, and her thermos in the other, Sansa hurried through the front doors of the office building. Bernie, the front desk security man, stared at her longer than usual. His brows lifted curiously and his wrinkled lips contorted into an odd shape she’d never seen before. He was old, polite, and fond of small talk. This morning no small talk was initiated. He gawked at her instead, rendered into a confused silence. Sansa flashed a smile when she passed and shuffled towards the elevators.

The cap-sleeved, scoop-necked blue dress hugged her hips so soundly that her legs hardly moved when she walked and she took her itty-bitty steps carefully. The dress accentuated each curve of her body, stretching tightly across her ass, over the swell of her breasts, and the dip of her waist. Not to mention her legs. The sky-high nude heels toed the line between office-appropriate and save-it-for-the-club-hopping. She’d considered changing and probably should have. However, the things she _should_ be doing were being thrown to the wayside one-by-one in favor of the things she was doing and those things were all some variation of playing with fire.

At the office door, Sansa fumbled for her keys. Her thermos slipped from her palm to the tips of her fingers, ready to plummet to the floor in heartbreaking mess of unconsumed caffeine. Her purse slid down her shoulder to the crook of her elbow where it rested painfully and Sansa wondered what the hell she had in there that was so goddamn heavy. Of all days for Sandor to _not_ be in the office before her, she was irritated he chose this particular day when she had her hands full.

The door bore the brunt of Sansa’s frustrations. She kicked it open harder than she intended and it slammed against the adjacent wall. A blast of cold air met her skin and inside the office was dark and cavernous.

Sandor insisted on blasting the AC, though he relented when Sansa began bringing sweaters to work while the temperatures outside soared well into the nineties. As soon as Sansa left for the evenings, Sandor apparently rushed to the thermostat to crank the AC up again. He must’ve forgotten to turn it off. That, or she beat him to the office before he conducted his “pre-Sansa” morning rituals, whatever those were.

Usually by the time Sansa arrived in the mornings, Sandor was already plugging away at work. He’d distractedly greet her with a nod and sometimes a half-smile, but now his office was empty, the lights turned off, and his desk cleared of papers and file folders.

_What if he’s taking the day off for his birthday?_

The thought left Sansa crestfallen as she emptied the content of her arms onto her desk. A dull sense of disappointment remained when she turned on the lights and started up her computer.

 _He’s not the type to take off for his birthday,_ Sansa reasoned with a small, exhaled laugh.

The man barely acknowledged holidays. When Sansa asked him about taking off the day after Halloween, he’d stared at her as if she sprouted wings. Though he ultimately agreed to her request, Sandor had seemed less than pleased about it and made a cutting comment about how Halloween was ridiculous.

Sansa headed down the hall towards the copy room, but stopped in front of the bathroom door, lingering momentarily before she ducked inside. When she lifted her eyes to the mirror hanging above the sink, Sansa gaped at her reflection.

_It’s too much._

Her hair was in deliberate curls, not the haphazard waves she let it dry into most mornings when she didn’t have it in her to lug out her hair dryer. This morning she opted for two coats of black mascara instead of one. On her way out the door, she dabbed on a layer of berry lip stain with cherry-flavored gloss over the top, the combination making her lips look plush and soft.

 _You’re playing with fire, Sansa,_ her conscience needled her once more as she stared at her overdone reflection.

This morning she woke up to an empty bed, stretching and reaching towards Joffrey’s side only to find it cold and vacant. After his wild Wednesdays on the town, Joffrey often stayed the night with his friends or perhaps with one of those petite blondes he favored. In the past, Sansa would tearfully demand an explanation from him – where he had been, why he hadn’t called, who he was with. He never had an explanation or an apology to give her. At some point, it stopped breaking her heart and the tears she cried for him dried up. She dolled herself up this morning with no fear of what Joff might say because he wasn’t there to watch her get ready, to dote on the way she brushed her hair and put on her make-up, to admire her as he shaved and told her how beautiful she looked or how lucky he felt to have her. Joff never did anything like that.

Sansa looked at herself in the mirror again. She chased away the shame and stood up straight, shoulders thrown back as she stared at her reflection.

_I’m beautiful and I’m worth more than Joffrey has given me. If he doesn’t realize that, then maybe it’s time I move on._

Sansa marched out of the bathroom in proud steps and a flush of excitement fueled by thoughts of resilience and daydreams of her eminent escape. Once settled at her desk, Sansa hid the brownies in her top drawer and scrolled through her inbox.

With no pressing emails, she navigated to an apartment rental website and perused through a list of studio apartments. Her mind ran wild, envisioning the cozy comfort of a small apartment. She’d give herself a reading nook with a plush chair and a bookshelf to put her most treasured tomes. She’d read on Sunday mornings with a cup of coffee and maybe she’d get a little companion, a kitten named Daisy with soft white fur and a pink collar. By the time a tall shadow loomed outside the frosted glass of the office door, Sansa had thoroughly torn through Ikea’s online catalog and bookmarked a new duvet cover and matching throw pillows. 

Sandor’s keys jangled in the door and Sansa quickly tossed her hair over her shoulders where it cascaded down her back. She licked her lips and she sat up straight. Sandor heaved through the door, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his hair pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. He hadn’t shaved this morning. The stubble from yesterday was thick upon his chin. His tired eyes furrowed at the doorknob in obvious confusion.

“Good morning!” Sansa greeted with a bright smile and swiveled her chair in his direction.

His initial glance was brief, accompanied by a stiff nod. After a moment, his head whipped back in Sansa’s direction and his eyes widened, though he looked no less confused than before.  

“Good morning,” he grumbled distractedly and cleared his throat. “You’re here early.”

Sandor started towards his office in deliberate steps, eyes focused straight ahead, but he stopped before passing Sansa’s desk. She smiled once more at him with her head titled to the side. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder and brushed against her bare arm. Sandor stared at her, only now there was no heat. Her skin didn’t prickle beneath his sultry gaze. He cocked one eyebrow at her and he appeared utterly confounded. His eyes flickered momentarily to her chest, where she was well aware the soft swell of her breasts was on full display. Sandor’s lingering gaze darted away and he bounded towards his office, exhaling a quiet laugh and shaking his head as he went.

Sansa discreetly tugged on the neckline of her dress and watched as Sandor tossed his bag down on his desk. He dialed his voicemail and let his speakerphone play the messages out loud. From his bag, he retrieved a thin, black tie that had been rolled into a neat bundle. Sandor approached his office door and Sansa felt her heart suddenly race, pounding loud in her own ears, until he stopped in front of the picture that hung next to his door. Sansa stared at that picture every time she left his office, noticing something new each time. The photograph was from Sandor’s time as a military police officer. He was on duty when the picture was taken and was crouched down next to his partner, a German Sheppard named Ammo. Sandor stood in front of the picture now and used the reflection of the glass as a mirror.

Sansa turned her attention to her computer screen and pulled up the report she’d been working on for the past few days. In the periphery of her vision, though, Sandor’s movements were a constant distraction. He stood within her line of site, looping his tie over and under, then over again, adjusting the length. She tried not to look. She tried to focus on the report – the wall of text she’d already written, the formatting that needed some cleaning up, the accompanying invoice that still had to be drafted. Her eyes drifted, though, and she swore she’d only look for a moment.

With his chin tilted ever so slightly up, Sandor’s long, thick fingers worked deftly at the loose knot of his tie. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows again today and his tattoos were on full display, the ink faded in some areas more than others, but the numerous designs encompassing the entirety of both forearms. He bit his bottom lip as he worked the tie and Sansa inadvertently followed suit, tasting the cherry lip-gloss on her tongue. The shirt he wore was more tailored than the ones he usually favored and flattered the tapered line of his waist, the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and the muscled features of his arms. The stubble on his chin suited him so well, Sansa realized, and with his hair pulled back, his scars were more apparent, but so too were the handsome features of his face – a strong jaw and hooked nose that looked entirely sexy on him.

Sandor folded down his collar and his eyes shifted suddenly towards Sansa, as though he had known she was watching the whole time and yet he hadn’t expected her to be staring at him so intently. He appeared startled, his eyes widened and his lips tightened with a grimace.

_Oh gosh! Oh no!_

Sansa immediately averted her attention back to her computer screen, but her chest heaved and her cheeks burned. She fumbled with a pencil and pretended to write something down, but ultimately scribbled illogical combinations of letters onto a post-it.  Sandor settled in his chair after the last of his voicemails finished playing, but left his door open, something he hardly ever did in the mornings. With her heart still racing in her chest, Sansa remembered the brownies and how she hadn’t even wished him happy birthday yet.

Sansa retrieved the Tupperware container from her drawer and stood up from her desk. Settled back in his chair and with his eyes glued to his computer screen, Sandor didn’t notice her standing in the doorway of his office. With her knuckles, Sansa knocked gently against the doorframe. His eyes shifted to the door and his chair swiveled towards her. He looked confused again; his heavy brow knitted together and he stared at her legs, then her hair, and her face, which she realized had more make-up on it than he’d probably seen before.

“Happy birthday!” Sansa chirped, the sweet sound of her voice causing Sandor to sit up straight in his seat. He lurched forward slowly, gawking at her though he looked entirely uncomfortable and was apparently speechless.

“Is today not your birthday?” Sansa sighed. She felt her face flush. Her cheeks were a bright shade of red, she knew without a doubt.

“No, it is,” Sandor responded with a stiff smile. “I’m just a little confused as to how you know.”

Sansa took slow steps towards his desk. Sandor eased back in his seat once more, rocking gently forwards and back, and the familiar heat was rising; now, he was the one trying not to stare, to get caught watching the way her hips swayed against the tight confines of her dress.

“Your whiskey club subscription sent you a happy birthday thing to the office,” Sansa informed and she set the Tupperware container down in front of him when she reached the edge of his desk. Sandor peeked into the container and looked up at her.

“You made these for me?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Sansa nodded gently. “They’re whiskey ganache brownies since you seem to like whiskey and all,” she added with a timid shrug.

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Sandor said with a small smile, the corners of his lips upturned appreciatively. “Thanks.”

Silence settled between them. Sandor gazed blankly at the Tupperware container and Sansa interlaced her fingers while shifting from side to side. Now would’ve been the time to leave, but she stayed rooted in front of his desk and she couldn’t say why.

“What are your plans for your birthday?” Sansa pressed, but the question came awkward from her lips.

“I’m not sure. I don’t normally celebrate it,” Sandor said plainly. He drummed his fingers against his desk and rocked back in his chair, gazing up her now with the features of his face, normally so hard and stoic, somehow softening with subtle levity.

“What?” Sansa nearly gasped. “You have to do something! It’s your birthday!”

“It’s just another day,” he countered with a shrug.

“Won’t you and Annalise celebrate?” Sansa queried with trepidation because it wasn’t really any of her business, but her curiosity could not be quelled. She wanted to know more about Annalise, though stray tendrils of strange feelings cropped up when Sandor mentioned the woman he was seeing. Sansa was reluctant to call those feelings jealousy, but she didn’t know what else to compare it to other than green-eyed envy.

“We might go out to dinner,” Sandor sighed and lifted one hand to scratch at the stubble of his emerging beard. “She’s just not the type to make a big deal out of things like birthdays and anniversaries. I guess she’s like me in that way.”

“Oh,” Sansa exhaled. “Yeah. I can understand.” She shifted in place again, feeling stupid for making such a big production for a man who hardly celebrated his own birthday. Of course, he didn’t celebrate his birthday. Sandor was no big mystery. He didn’t mince words about anything and Sansa felt another wave of embarrassment at having read him entirely wrong.

“But I do appreciate this,” Sandor quickly intoned, somehow puzzling out the dejected way she stood in front of him, shriveling in on herself in compounding mortification. “Thank you,” he added with a nod and turned to his computer.   

“You’re very welcome,” Sansa replied and crossed the room. “Open or close?” She loitered beneath the doorframe with her hand resting on the knob.

Sandor glanced towards the door and his eyes quickly roved over her – up her legs, hips, breasts, and all the way back down. It was only a moment, a flutter of his gaze, and she may have missed it if she weren’t watching him, anticipating the attention he paid her in discreet glances and rugged smiles, throaty laughs and hungry stares.

“Open,” Sandor replied, but he wasn’t looking at her when he said it. He’d averted his attention back to his computer screen.

Sansa’s hand slipped from the doorknob and she turned away, remembering how her ass looked in this dress and knowing damn well he was watching her. Her hips swayed more obviously than they had before and, when she sat down at her desk, Sansa saw that Sandor’s fingertips were resting on his keyboard, but he wasn’t typing. He stared at his fingers, the creases on his forehead apparent even from Sansa’s desk and his chest was steadily rising and falling as if he was only slightly breathless, but tried to hide it anyhow.

Sansa settled into her work, her mind endlessly distracted and the words she wrote into her report flawed and hardly coherent in some places. Red squiggles underlined words in every other sentence, words she knew how to spell, but her fingers were clumsy and she couldn’t stop her gaze from wandering over her computer screen. Sandor was fully immersed in his work and, if his occasional heavy sigh or groan was anything to go by, he was increasingly frustrated.

His fist pounded against his desk and his chair swiveled abruptly towards his office door and in Sansa’s direction.

“Sansa!” he bellowed, her name a harsh snap.

She hurried from her desk, heart drumming wild in her chest when she shuffled into his office as fast as her dress would allow.

“Come here,” Sandor demanded and rolled his chair over for Sansa to stand next him. Her legs trembled when she crossed the room, knees weakening and her throat felt dry.

“What the hell is this?” Sandor threw one hand up towards his computer screen and immediately turned to Sansa.

On his screen was a list of contacts embedded in the email system they used. The contacts were listed alphabetically and the corresponding business cards were scanned into the program. On days when Sandor was gone until late in the afternoon, Sansa busied herself with the pet project of getting everything in the office digitalized, including his contacts and calendar.

“I forgot to show you,” Sansa began softly, hoping the smile on her lips might ease a bit of the anger she felt rolling off of Sandor in steady waves. “While you were gone yesterday, I put all your contacts into Outlook. Now when you draft an email, you can search for them. You won’t have to go digging through stacks of business cards for email addresses or phone numbers.”

“I liked my stacks of business cards,” Sandor huffed. His arms crossed tightly over his chest and his lips set firmly into an irritated scowl.

“I also added your appointments into the Outlook calendar,” Sansa continued, less enthusiastic than before, the words more of a reluctant confession than anything. “You can set it up to send you reminders and you can share access to your calendar with whomever you choose.”

Sandor ran one hand over his face and sighed heavily into his palm. His chair swiveled towards her, his legs open wide and elbows planted firmly on the armrest.

“I don’t need to share my calendar with anyone,” he insisted with measured control over the tone of his voice. His anger was abundantly clear in the way his face was red and his jaw clenched.

His icy gaze swept up towards her, unwavering because he demanded an answer, something more than what she had already given him.

“You may end up liking it.  Just try it out,” Sansa shrugged and bit her bottom lip hard.

He continued to stare, though his eyes meandered to her lips. He turned his head over his shoulder, glancing at his computer, and another wave of irritation seemed to take hold when he averted his attention back towards her.

“I promise it will make things easier and, if it doesn’t, I’ll put it back to how it was,” Sansa offered with an unbidden step forward.

She followed Sandor’s eyes down towards her legs, thinking it odd he was taking this opportunity to appreciate their length, but quickly realized his gaze wasn’t appreciative. She was standing between his legs, each of his knees on either side of her, closer to him than she’d ever been before. In fact, so close he probably thought she was about to crawl into his lap and that explained the look of sheer bewilderment on his face now.

Sansa backed away from him, all the way to the far edge of his desk where he might not notice how terribly red her cheeks were or the fact that her hands were now shaking.  

“I want you to put it back to how it was now,” Sandor grumbled insistently.

“I just thought if you tried using-” Sansa began.

“Listen,” he brusquely interrupted. “I’ve run this business for the past five years just fine without all this fancy shit. I like my contacts here.” Sandor snatched up the black leather binder that housed his business cards. “And my calendar here.” He tossed the binder down and probed his finger hard against the desk calendar that sat beneath his keyboard. “I want you to do the things I ask you to do; no more and no less. Understood?”

“Understood,” Sansa managed shakily. She lowered her eyes to hide her embarrassment and the hurt she felt quickly surfacing, though she knew the latter notion was ridiculous.  He was her boss and he had every right to express his displeasure at her work. It would be unprofessional of her to take it personally or, worse, to start crying in his office. Regardless, a lump in her throat burned and she kept her eyes lowered even as she turned away. From behind, she heard Sandor exhale an exasperated breath.

“Shut my door when you leave,” he added, almost gently, for all the good it.

At her desk, Sansa sunk into her chair and closed her eyes as she swiveled back and forth. The tears she thought would come vanished along with the lump in her throat. Her skin was flush, not with embarrassment or arousal, but now with agitation. Her fingers curled tightly around the arms of her chair. Her lips contorted into an unbidden pout. True, she perhaps had overstepped her bounds by updating Sandor’s archaic method of keeping contacts and appointments, but that most certainly did not warrant his outburst.

Sansa wiped her lipgloss off with a tissue and tossed it in the trash. She turned her attention to the computer and started on her report once more. She fell into a steady pace and let her frustrations fuel the momentum. She’d prove him wrong. She’d show him that if she threw in the towel like all the secretaries before her, he’d be screwed. Sansa conquered the red squiggly lines in no time and polished up the last few remaining paragraphs. She fixed the formatting and even put together the invoice.

By late afternoon, she had blazed through her report and was putting the final touches on it. She admired her work with a satisfied smile, whispering the finely crafted words to herself and doting on the flawless formatting. Her attention was drawn to the bottom right corner of her screen where a pop-up appeared.

 

 **_New Message:_ ** _ <No Subject> Clegane, Sandor _

 

Sansa steeled herself, sitting up straight in her seat and drawing her chin up high as she pulled in a measure breath.

“Here we go,” she mumbled and clicked on the message.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 **To:** Stark, Sansa  <sstark@cis.com>

 **From:** Clegane, Sandor <sclegane@cis.com>

 **Subject:** No Subject

 

I like the brownies. You are a good baker.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A derisive giggle burst through her lips and, though her hand flew to her mouth to muffle the sound, she still hoped that Sandor heard; that he was intently listening from behind his desk and waiting on bated breath for some cutesy response. Just like that, they’d bury the hatchet.

_I don’t think so._

She rolled her eyes and deleted the message, content to ignore his guised attempts at smoothing things over.  If he wanted to come out here and speak to her in person, then she might listen. Until then, she’d do what he asked her to – nothing more and nothing less. With her ear buds in and music playing to drown out her thoughts, Sansa continued her work.

Not long after sending his vaguely contrite message, Sandor emerged from his office. Normally, he strode through the open area in quickened paces, always in a rush to do what he needed to do and get back to work. Only now, he lingered beneath the doorframe for a handful of seconds with his hands shoved in his pockets. In slow steps, he wandered towards the closet that functioned as their “kitchen” area. She ignored him when he casually strolled past her desk in strides too small for his legs and too dawdling for his temperament. 

While he loitered to get her attention, she couldn’t be bothered to peel her eyes away from the computer screen. Her excel sheet was far from riveting, but, as far as Sandor was concerned, Sansa was positively consumed by her work, so much so she couldn’t spare one single glance in his direction.

When he flipped open the Keurig and tossed in a K-Cup, Sansa didn’t bother to tell him the thing had been acting up all week. He figured it out soon enough and Sansa could hear him grumbling profanity at the appliance despite the music still drifting through her ear buds.

Defeated by the coffee maker, Sandor ambled back in the direction he’d come, but stopped in front of Sansa’s desk. She was content to ignore him, but heard the low grumble of his voice. Sansa tugged on the cords of her headphones and her ear buds fell to her lap.

“What?” she asked and lifted her eyes to him. Sandor towered over her desk – tall, strong, and fierce, or so he thought. In actuality, he looked not only apologetic, but perhaps a bit embarrassed himself.

“I’m going downstairs to get coffee. You want anything?” he repeated.

He wanted her to say yes. He wanted her to laugh or smile or fawn over the email he had sent. Sansa knew by the way he shifted gently on his feet, so uncertain and with heavy anticipation as he stared down at her.

“No, thanks,” Sansa answered politely, but her words were cold snap from the warmth she normally regarded him with and he most definitely felt the chill. She gathered the ear buds from her lap and untangled the ends.

“Do you want to take a break and come with me while I get coffee?” he tried again.

Sandor didn’t drink coffee in the afternoons. Sansa knew that about him. He didn’t want coffee now. He wanted a truce and this was his only excuse to talk to her, but she didn’t like games and was vaguely surprised he’d taken this particular route towards an apology.

“No. I already had my break.” Sansa flashed a false smile – too forced for him not to notice the irreverence. Sandor retreated towards the front office door, confounded for the umpteenth time today and now obligated to get a coffee he didn’t really want in the first place.

After ten minutes had passed, Sandor returned with a small cup tucked in his hand and his pride apparently intact now. He stopped in front of Sansa’s desk again, feet firmly planted on the floor and one arm crossed about his chest while the other brought the Styrofoam cup to his lips.

“What’s the status of that report?” he barked, evidently oblivious to the fact that Sansa didn’t have her headphones in. She turned to him and matched his eyes. A different battle of wills was about to ensue and he could bark all he wanted. Sansa didn’t need to shout or rant – her work would speak for itself.

“Finished. I just sent it to you.” She slathered her words in artificial sweetness, subtle enough that she’d leave Sandor guessing whether or not this particular smile was sincere.

His eyes flickered over her, sizing her up it would seem, and he nodded his head as he popped off the lid to his coffee cup and tossed it into the trashcan next to her desk.

“Good,” he countered sharply. “Work on the Gallagher one next. I want it by tomorrow morning.”

His voice was deep, cutting, and dry – a rumble of demands, one right after the other. He stared at her over the edge of his cup and pursed his lips as he blew on the steaming liquid.

_Touché. If this is how it’s going to be, then so be it._

Sansa swiveled in her chair and scooted to the edge of the desk where he stood in front of her. She crossed her legs, which caused her dress to ride up her thighs. Her heel slipped ever so slightly out of her shoe, revealing the delicate arch of her foot.

“You’ll have it in about ten minutes,” she replied on a honeyed voice, soft and sweet, head tilted to the side. “It just needs a cover page. I’m working on that now.”

Sansa carefully folded her arms in front of her and gently clasped her hands over her knees. Her breasts were pushed together, the scoop-necked hem falling dangerously low and showcasing even more of her cleavage than before and certainly an amount that was far from appropriate for work.

“Anything else you want from me?” Sansa gazed up at Sandor through her eyelashes and quickly licked her bottom lip.

Sandor froze, his mouth fell open slightly, and the steady stream of exhaled breath blowing over his coffee stopped all at once. The battle no longer wore on between them. Instead, it waged within Sandor. He looked at turns besieged by desire – to stare at her and all the curves of her body she had on display for him – and by irritation – that he’d been bested.

A long, insufferable silence wore on between them once more, but he didn’t let his eyes roam over her body. Instead, he forced himself to match her unwavering stare. Sandor was red in the face. Splotches of ruddy color peeked out from beneath the stubble on his chin and cheeks. His chest moved up and down with heavy inhales and quickened exhales. 

“No,” Sandor finally whispered with a small shake of the head. He shoved one hand into his pocket and disappeared back into his office where the door slammed shut.

Sansa snatched up a manila file folder and fanned herself while sucking in deep breaths. Her palms were clammy and her skin felt sticky. She eyed the thermostat, though the AC was still blasting cold air, and contemplated turning the setting down a few degrees. The heat seemed to be seeping through the walls, pouring through the windows, and the air was dense and stifling.

“You’re playing with fire,” she chided herself on a whisper. The phone at her desk rang and a startled yelp escaped Sansa’s lips.

“Clegane Investigative Services, this is Sansa speaking. How can I help you?” Sansa blathered into the phone, all the words of her typical greeting running together and sounding like a breathless mess.

“Hi, I’m calling for Sandor,” a woman replied on the other end, her words slick and calm. This woman’s voice was husky, a sultry coo that Sansa could only manage when she was on the tail end of a cold.

“Okay, one moment. I’ll transfer you.” Sansa’s finger hovered over the button that rang straight to Sandor’s line, but the woman interjected.

“No, I already tried calling his office direct, but his calls are being sent to voicemail. Is he in?”

“He is.” Sansa furrowed her brow at his office door. He never sent his calls straight to voicemail while he was in the office. _Ever._ “If his calls are going to voicemail, he may be unavailable at the moment. If you’re a current client, I might be able to help you.”

The woman’s laughter casually drifted through the line; the type of laugh that Arya would give on Wednesday nights with her feet propped up on an ottoman and a glass and a half of Chablis in her system.

“Oh no! I’m not a client,” the woman quickly corrected, still chuckling and still managing her words just fine. “I’m his girlfriend.”

“Oh!” Sansa squeaked in shrill contrast to the woman’s calm cadence. She cleared her throat and drew in a breath before starting again. “Well, I can poke my head into his office and let him know that you’re on the line.”

“Yeah…” The woman seemed to contemplate Sansa’s offer momentarily. “Actually, no. I’m sure he’s probably busy so just tell him Annalise called, that I wish him a happy birthday, and I cannot wait for tonight.”

“I will get that message to him.” Sansa scribbled down Annalise’s name on a post-it note and stuck it to the edge of the computer screen. Somehow this seemed to make up for the guilt tugging at her, forcing her to understand there were consequences of playing with fire, and not just for her and for Sandor.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Annalise replied gratefully and hung up the phone.

The call ended a few minutes past four-thirty. Sansa snatched up her gym bag and headed for the bathroom where she changed into her workout clothes. Back at her desk and bent over at her computer, Sansa pulled up a new email and quickly typed out the message.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **To:** Clegane, Sandor  <sclegane@cis.com>

 **From:** Stark, Sansa <sstark@cis.com>

 **Subject:** End of the day messages

 

Mr. Clegane,

You received the following messages this afternoon:

-Pete Williams called in regards to another case he wants

us to handle.

 -Annalise called to wish you a happy birthday and

to express her excitement for your plans this evening.

 

The reports we discussed are completed and filed.  I’m instructing

a dance class this evening so I am leaving the office now. 

 

Regards,

Sansa

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sansa hit the send button and quickly shoved her belongings into her purse. Sandor would have something to say about her email. He hated formal messages, somehow seeing an insult in all what he called “the false courtesies” that plagued the business world. Professionalism was the only remedy Sansa saw to their situation, though. She’d douse the flames with poised interactions and appropriate behavior. No funny business anymore. Sansa dashed towards the door and hurried down the stairs, careful not to trip over her own two feet. She jogged across the lobby, pushing past a cluster of architects who worked on the first floor. Within an arm’s reach of the building’s front door, Sansa heard sound of heavy footfalls pounding down the stairs.

“Sansa!” Sandor’s shout echoed from the floor above. Sansa bolted through the front door and rushed around the corner to her car. She tossed her bags in the back seat and sped down the alleyway. Her tires screeched when she turned the corner and the car she cut off blared its horn. In her rearview mirror, Sansa could see Sandor standing outside the building appearing visibly distressed as he watched her car speed down the street.

Sansa drove the two miles to the dance studio in a flurry of guilt, relief, and resuscitated annoyance. She was running behind when she left work – a whole five minutes, which meant a lot in rush hour traffic where time was compounded against her favor. She sped through traffic, weaving in and out of lanes, and hoping like hell she wouldn’t get pulled over. All along the way, her phone buzzed incessantly in her purse. Reaching to the passenger seat, Sansa tried to dig it out, jabbing blindly into the crevices between her make-up bag, two library books, tubes of chapstick, and piles of change and bobby pins at the bottom. She gave up the pursuit and navigated the turns into the strip mall that housed the dance studio.

Margaery’s pearl white BMW was parked in the usual spot. Sansa’s phone buzzed again as she peeled in next to Marg’s car. With the screen illuminating the bottom depths of her obnoxiously oversized purse, she pulled the phone free. Sandor’s name met her eyes. He had never called her or texted on her cell, but now, she had two missed calls, one text message, and one voicemail from him.

Her patience was stretched thin to the point of breaking and Sansa didn’t have enough time or enduring curiosity to pick up the phone or humor his text. She threw her phone back in her purse, grabbed her water bottle, and sprinted towards the building.

The dance studio was one room, large enough to comfortably hold a class of ten students, but no more. Windows lined the front wall of the space and mirrored walls made up the rest of the studio. The front was flanked on either side with two offices and a handful of folding chairs were set out for guests, though this particular class rarely had visitors.

At the back of the room, Margaery sat on the floor with her legs straight in front of her and her reached towards her toes in a stretch. With her eyes closed and a gentle smile on her lopsided lips, she didn’t notice when Sansa approached, at least not until Sansa dropped her bag to the ground where it landed with a loud thud. Margaery’s eyes snapped open at the sound and she slowly rolled up from her stretch. Sansa threw her water bottle down on top of her purse and shrugged out of her zip-up jacket. Margaery warily looked on as Sansa slipped out of her ballet flats and flung them at the back wall, watching with delight when they hit the mirror hard and landed on the floor.

“Rough day?” Margaery asked as Sansa pulled off the yoga pants that covered her boy shorts. 

“Yeah,” Sansa nodded. Across the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror and the sight of a distinct scowl on her face.

Normally, Margaery was more than delighted to chat Sansa up about any and all problems – boyfriend problems, family problems, work problems. All were free game and analyzed to the ends of the earth and back until the problems no longer seemed so insurmountable. Now, the girl went quiet and continued with her stretches, her curious gaze drifting back towards Sansa once every handful of seconds.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Margaery carefully ventured.

Sansa bent over at the waist, her fingertips touching her toes and her hair hanging down just as far. She turned towards Margaery who had mirrored her movements.

“He just drives me crazy!” Sansa ranted. “He runs so hot and cold. One day, he’s buying me dinner and the next he’s biting my head off about doing something that I thought would be a nice gesture. One that any normal person would have appreciated!”

Sansa stood back up and snatched her water bottle up. She took a long pulled and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“God, and then he sends me an email, Margaery! A fucking email to say that my brownies were good. Like that’s supposed to make up for how he acted!”

Sansa’s voice echoed throughout the studio and she had inadvertently begun to pace. Her heels pounded against the polyurethane covered hardwood floors and the students - all ten of them - gaped in Sansa’s direction. Margaery corralled Sansa and pulled her to the back wall.

“Honey, I know things with Joff have been shitty lately, but just hang in there. Moving to a new city is never easy and you two are still adjusting to living together.” Margaery offered her encouragement with a dull smile. Tendrils of her hair fell loose around her heart shaped face.

“No,” Sansa shook her head with a sigh. “It’s not about Joff. It’s my boss. He’s just so frustrating sometimes!”

“Oh.” Margaery’s brow folded in confusion. “Wait, you went to dinner with your boss?”

“It’s not like that,” Sansa quickly corrected, though Margaery had already cast a dubious stare in her direction. “We were working late so he ordered in Chinese food, but…just…nevermind.”

Sansa shook her head again and heaved a frustrated sigh when she slumped against the mirror.

“Damn, girl. You’re really upset about this,” Margaery commented as she crouched down and dug through her purse.

_Am I that upset?_

Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, Sansa saw her cheeks were red and her eyes were not quite sad, but the emergent disappointment was noticeable. She hardly cried about Joffrey anymore and Arya had taken on the burden of anger at his antics. Sansa merely tried to keep up, playing the part of stilted girlfriend, but it felt like a ruse. Her cheeks were never flushed and her eyes were never disappointed after her calls were sent straight to Joff’s voicemail the nights he didn’t come home.  

“I just don’t know how to read him sometimes.” Sansa’s afterthought captured the mantra of the day. She held onto the thought, filing it away to retrieve the next time she convinced herself she had Sandor Clegane all figured out.

“What’s there to read? The guy is obviously a prick.” Margaery pushed herself from the floor with her pink iPod in hand and hurried towards the AV system in the corner. Sansa trailed after her, hands settled on her hips and mantra immediately thrown to the wind as she tried to puzzle out Sandor anyway.

“He’s not, though. That’s why it’s so frustrating. He can be nice and thoughtful in his own ways, you know? He’s just…” She stopped and Margaery turned towards her, intent to hear Sansa out. “His bark is just worse than his bite, I guess.”

Margaery’s shoulders rolled into a shrug and her playlist began, the first song always the same and always meant for stretching. She winked at Sansa and sauntered to the front of the room where two chrome poles were set-up for instruction. The other ten poles, five on each side of the room, were occupied with each of the students standing next to them. Sansa and Margaery’s tandem worked flawlessly – Margaery instructing out loud and Sansa demonstrating the moves on the pole, though Margaery was every bit as fluid in her pole work.

Sansa could think of no better way to unwind after a rough workday. The music pounded through the studio, the beats resounding in steady rhythm that she could feel reverberating through her body. In their junior year of college, Margaery suggested pole dancing as a class they could teach together and Sansa categorically refused. The last thing she needed was to be branded a wannabe stripper.  Sansa had eventually changed her mind, though, once she began taking the classes herself and immediately saw the athletic challenge, not to mention the fantastic workout, it provided. Sansa and Margaery picked up enough knowledge and skill to finally offer a weekly class at the studio.   

“Alright, ladies!” Margaery hollered over the fading beat of the warm-up song. “Eyes on Sansa as we practice the routine from last week. Jump in when you feel ready!”

The next song thrummed through the speakers – slower than the last, but well-matched to the deliberate, erotic movements. Sansa’s arm reached high above her head, her leg wrapped around the pole, and the room spun slowly around as she glided down the pole to the floor. The students followed suit and Margaery examined each, giving feedback where needed. The song picked up in rhythm and Sansa lost herself in it, eyes closed and a gentle smile on her lips. With both legs wrapped around the pole half-way up, Sansa turned herself upside down, her arms hanging down next to her head and her hands gripping the pole tightly so she was locked in place.

Her eyes fluttered open towards the front area and her attention was drawn to someone standing a few feet inside the door. Sansa’s eyes zeroed in on Gabbie, another dance instructor. The petite woman was pointing to Sansa and next to her was Sandor who followed Gabbie’s outstretched arm to where Sansa was dangling upside on the pole.

A gasp escaped Sansa’s lips. Her grip nearly slipped from the metal, her palms clammy now and her legs feelings entirely weak. At the same moment, Sandor’s eyes widened to the size of saucers while he immediately turned away, pretending not to have noticed and staring out the windows instead with horribly feigned nonchalance. Sansa pulled herself right side up and slid down the pole until her bare feet met the floor.

“Who is that?” Margaery mouthed to Sansa in bewilderment.

“My boss. I’ll be right back,” Sansa distractedly answered as she rushed across the room.

She threw on her jacket, despite the fact her ass was hanging out of cut off shorts and the only sports bra that was clean was the one that was too small. She slipped into her ballet flats and hurried across the studio. Sandor had stepped outside and paced in front of the windows, but stopped abruptly when Sansa pushed through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa huffed and crossed her arms over her bare midriff.

A half-smile tugged across his lips and he ran one hand through the length of his jet-black hair, which was loose around his shoulders now.

“You’re on the pole now?” he chuckled and motioned his head towards the studio where the pounding beat of bass could still be heard. “Don’t I pay you enough?”

Another scowl formed on Sansa’s face – forcing her lips into a furious frown and narrowing her eyes to icy slits that glowered at Sandor – and there was nothing she could have done to stop it. She wanted to slap him and would have if he wasn’t her boss and if that smile still on his lips wasn’t alarmingly alluring. If his stubble, now darker and thicker than this morning, didn’t look so damn good with his hair down and if the tattoo sleeves on both his arms, visible from only the elbows down, weren’t so sexy on him, she might have slapped him. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Who the hell knew?

She opted for silence and pulled her arms tighter across her middle while mindlessly watching cars roll through the parking lot of the strip mall.

“It’s a joke,” Sandor deliberately defended, though the rough timbre of his voice was soft now, pleading almost.

“I’m not laughing,” Sansa haughtily retorted.

“Well, I never claimed I was funny.” Sandor sounded sorry and Sansa didn’t quite understand why he always stopped short of apologizing.

“I finished my reports,” she declared, but her voice was tremulous, only now did she feel the threat of tears. “I did everything you asked me to do – nothing more, nothing less – so if you’re here to-”

“I’m not here about work,” Sandor cut in and reached into his messenger bag. “You left your wallet on your desk. I tried catching you before you left, but you were already gone.”

Sansa’s opal-sequined wallet rested in Sandor’s outstretched hand.

“Oh. Thanks,” Sansa mumbled and took her wallet from him. Her eyes drifted to his and she offered him a wan smile, something he seemed to notice. Perhaps he wanted more; the bright sincerity she normally regarded him with. He seemed to miss it and the notion sent a pleasured buzz through her body _._

“That email you sent.” Sandor settled back on his heels and shook his head slowly. “Mr. Clegane? Regards? What was that all about?”

For a moment, Sansa stared blankly at Sandor, dumbfounded he could possibly be so blithely and arrogantly unaware of how he had treated her this morning; how he had the nerve to actually probe for an explanation for her curt email when he didn’t dream of giving her an explanation of his own behavior.

“Thank you for bringing me my wallet. I have to get back now.” Sansa spun away from Sandor and she meant to storm back inside, to leave him standing alone like the buffoon he was.

“Little bird,” Sandor hissed, trying to keep his voice down, but she could hear the desperation in his voice just fine. He only called her “little bird” in the mornings and even then it was sparingly. And he certainly never addressed her that way in public.  He also had never touched her like he was now – fingers gripping her upper arm and tugging her back gently. Gentle for him was enough to send her tripping over her own feet and landing against his chest. When she looked up at him, he seemed half-sorry that she was there in the first place and half-aroused because she was damn near naked and now pressed against him.  

The metal of his belt buckle was cold against Sansa’s bare waist, but his hands engulfing her arms were warm and the faint scent of his cologne was so different than what Joffrey wore. Sandor touched her differently too – tender and wanting, two things he had no right to, but she relished it anyway and so did he. The release came reluctant. Sandor’s hands feel back to his sides and Sansa took a step backwards. The silence between them held no awkwardness, only the heaviness of things better left unsaid.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Sandor intoned quietly. He looked like he wanted to touch her again. His brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. Sansa watched his hands curl gently in on themselves with his fingers tucked securely against his palms. “You help me a lot around the office and I really appreciate your initiative.”

“You have an interesting way of showing it.” Sansa cracked a smile and mindlessly traced the circular shape of the sequins on her wallet.

“I know I can be hard to deal with sometimes. I don’t like change. I did try the calendar thing, though,” Sandor admitted. Sandor bit his bottom lip, suppressing a stubborn smile that broke free when Sansa let out a small laugh and stared up at him expectantly.  

“And?” Sansa cajoled.

“It’s convenient.” A hearty laugh followed Sandor’s begrudging confession.

“I knew if you gave it a chance, you’d like it!” Sansa nudged Sandor playfully with her elbow and gazed at him through her lashes.

“I didn’t say I liked it.  I just said that it’s convenient,” he quickly corrected. His smile faded and his eyes swept over her bare midriff before falling to his feet. He shifted uneasily. “I’ll let you get back. I’ve gotta get going anyhow. Annalise and I have reservations.”

Sansa nodded vacantly. Sandor scratched at his stubble and Sansa liked the sound. She liked the way he lifted his chin so very slightly when he did it and how that drew attention to the chiseled edge of his jawline. She stared at him, wanting to watch the little things he did, like the way he put a tie on or how he chewed his lip when he was nervous.

_Professional, Sansa. Keep it professional._

“Thank you for bringing my wallet.” Sansa spoke kindly, but her words were tepid and Sandor seemed to notice. “I hope you and Annalise have a nice dinner.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” he responded with equal measures of cool reserve. He lifted his hand in a departing wave and cast one final glance at her before turning away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a few steps towards the parking lot, but stopped suddenly and turned back towards Sansa.

“I couldn’t stop eating your brownies. My appetite is completely shot.” His eyes lit up, as though he were telling her a secret meant for just the two of them and his lips curled into a handsome smile – devilish, but genuine and warm.

“I’m glad you liked them so much,” Sansa replied and she wished he would stay, that they could tell each other more secrets and the truth would sweep away the cumbersome heaviness of unspoken words.

She didn’t know what secrets she would tell him, though; perhaps that she thought about him when she shouldn’t; that she envied Annalise who was so very sensible and collected and all the other things Sandor seemed to appreciate; that she wasn’t those things. She was a daydreamer with one foot in this world and one in the imaginary world of a shoebox apartment with a cozy reading nook, a kitten named Daisy, and a man who would love her, cherish her, and gladly spoil his dinner by eating her brownies.

“Happy birthday,” was all Sansa said and she cast her daydreams away, saving them for some other time, in some other place, and with another man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this story, left lovely comments, and held on for the next update! It's all so very much appreciated :) 
> 
> A shout-out to MissMallora who, in the course of our discussions, gave me the idea for pole dancing Sansa! Thanks, babe :) 
> 
> This thing isn't beta'ed so any mistakes are my own!


	5. Intrigue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone sincerely for the marvelous feedback on this story, especially last chapter! It made my heart soar and was truly unexpected for a WIP that I consider sort of a niche fic. Thank you very much :) 
> 
> Warning: Slight suggestions of domestic violence. Nothing is described in any kind of detail, but please be advised.

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

Intrigue

* * *

 

Wet socks irritated Sandor to no end, the cold, nagging annoyance unlike anything else. The last words Sandor’s father said to him:

_“Keep your socks dry, boy.”_

They were a relic of Vietnam and the time his father spent schlepping through damp jungles. No tears were shed the day Sandor shipped out, no formal goodbyes were spoken at the airport. Sandor’s rucksack had been heavy on his back and what his father meant to say – _wanted to_ say, but never could – was that he was proud. All he mumbled, though, was an admonition to change his socks often and to call home when he could. At eighteen, Sandor hadn’t been deploying to the jungle. He was shipping out to the Middle Eastern desert, but he changed his socks anyhow and developed a distaste for damp feet, goat meat, and sand.

In a downpour of cold October rain, Sandor trudged through puddles on the sidewalk. Thunder clapped and the streetlights reflected off the slickened asphalt of the road. Water gushed from the gutters, which feebly kept up with the deluge, and his leather shoes similarly were overcome until his socks were soaked. He dipped beneath awnings and overhangs where he could, but his pace didn’t slow or linger. He didn’t duck into the myriad of hipster bookstores, thrift shops, or pretentious coffee houses to wait out the rain. Instead, he cursed his wet socks and hoped like hell Bronn picked a decent place for their weekly meet-up. The bar was four blocks from Sandor’s office, but that meant nothing now that he was sufficiently drenched.

The skies had opened up in the early evening during a conference call that started twenty minutes late and ran thirty minutes longer than it should have. Sansa took diligent notes on the other side of Sandor’s desk, her head tilted to the side and her pen gliding across the page. _She’s doodling,_ Sandor had surmised.Sansa was easy to read. A wistful smile played on her lips when she daydreamed and he always stopped himself short of asking what she was thinking about. It wasn’t his business, for starters, and she didn’t need to know how often he stared at her lips – the way she smiled, the way she bit the bottom one when deep in thought, the way she licked them, the way they pursed at him when he made a tasteless joke, the way they parted sometimes when he entered the room.

During the call, Sandor put the speakerphone on mute to crack jokes about the fat fuck on the other end of the line; the one who wheezed when he talked and babbled phrases from the 1950’s. “ _Gee willikers, Clegane! That’s swell!”_ Sandor mimicked the wheezing and the strange, anachronous cadence of the fat man’s voice and Sansa erupted into a fit of giggles. She contained herself, just barely, before Sandor unmuted the call. He finally managed to get the man off the phone, apologized for keeping Sansa so late, and grumbled to himself about the rain, something Sansa surely overheard.

“Take my umbrella,”she told him before he left the office fifteen minutes past seven. A powder pink umbrella had dangled from her fingers. “I’m staying late tonight. Take my umbrella. The rain will stop by the time I leave.”

Sandor meant to ask why she was staying late for the second night in a row when he knew damn well she was caught up on her reports, but her outstretched forearm was covered in bruises bearing the distinct outline of grubby fingers.

_She doesn’t want to go home,_ he’d realized.

She wasn’t thinking when she handed him the umbrella. She had forgotten that her cardigan was draped over the back of her chair and her short sleeve shirt revealed the marks. She smiled at him so sweetly and he couldn’t comprehend who would ever want to hurt her.

Sandor refused the umbrella and not because it was pink. He shook his head and mumbled “no” because it was all he could mange. The exchange only lasted a few moments, but Sandor understood with renewed clarity Sansa’s reluctance to depart the office each night. The brutal truth struck him unexpectedly and he could do no more than stare blankly and unabashedly at her arm. When she finally realized the marks on her skin had garnered his attention, Sansa quickly tucked the umbrella away, turned to her computer screen, and wished him a goodnight.  

At a half past seven, Sandor hurried into the lonely bar at the far end of the street. The place was quaint; an honest little sports bar with dark wood and dimmed lights, no frills or painfully contrived attempts at striped-bare vintage chic. The bottoms of Sandor’s pants sopped up the rain and small puddles pooled at his feet. He wiped away the dampened tendrils of hair plastered to the side of his face.

Bronn was already settled at a corner table, watching the baseball game and sipping on a Guinness. Over the top of his glass, his eyes scanned the small space of empty tables and he waved when he caught the sight of Sandor crossing the room.

“What are you drinking tonight, love?” A waitress manifested by Sandor’s side and smiled broadly through crooked teeth. He tossed his jacket on the wide window ledge next to the table and took a seat.

“Jameson on the rocks. Double,” he requested with a heavy sigh.  

“Rough day?” Bronn lifted one eyebrow, but averted his gaze back to the baseball game.

Sandor knew Bronn well enough to know he hated baseball; only now did his friend feign interest long enough to avoid eye contact. Bronn had mastered the art of testing Sandor’s waters, dipping a toe in to assess whether to back off and let Sandor sulk or to ease in with his personal brand of banter.

Sandor’s shoulders rolled into a shrug. His day had been fine. In fact, his days weren’t the issue. Business had reached a steady cadence – just busy enough to keep things interesting without burying him and Sansa in work. It was Sansa’s days – or rather her nights – that had him most concerned.

“Not particularly,” Sandor responded and snatched up a handful of nuts from the bowl at the table’s center. They tasted stale, as if they were left out day after day until the bowl was empty.

“I was thinking of ordering food,” Bronn added cheerfully, though, his gaze still drifted warily in Sandor’s direction.

“Go for it. I’m not hungry right now.”

The waitress brought Sandor’s drink in a pint glass, a triple on the rocks. Sandor paid her a curt nod and she smiled in return with pity in her eyes. With one long sip, he relished the warmth spreading down his chest.

“So, what’s new, man?” Bronn broke in.

Sandor and Bronn met up weekly when they could. Bronn traveled often for work and in the same rotation – dashing off to Europe, then Asia, down to Australia, out to California, and back to the Midwest again. A transient lifestyle seemed to suite Bronn, but the restlessness of it all caught up to him and now the man looked permanently exhausted.

“Not a lot,” Sandor replied. “Work’s been steady. Keeping me busy as usual.”

“Oh yeah, you hired someone new.” Bronn snapped his fingers before pressing them to his forehead. “Ah, what’s her name again?”

“Sansa.” Her name came quietly from Sandor’s lips, soft on a murmur, something like a sigh.

“Sansa, yeah!” Bronn hollered and slammed his palm against the table. “How’s that working out?”

“Good.” Sandor responded simply and studied the baseball game with sudden interest, sipping slowly on his drink.

“Is she fucking useless like Susan?” Bronn quipped with a chuckle.

“No,” Sandor shook his head and joined in the laughter. He’d almost forgotten about Susan, her lazy eye, and her chronic cough.

“Annoying?” Bronn’s voice rose insistently. His cheeks were flushed and he swayed gently in his seat, the telltale signs that he was on his third, possibly fourth, pint of Guinness. For claiming to be such a hard man, Bronn didn’t hold his alcohol worth shit.

Sandor shook his head and smiled into his glass with another gulp.

“Come one, man,” Bronn complained. “What’s the deal with her?”

“Nothing. She’s great,” Sandor replied truthfully.

Even if he wanted to divulge more, he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Sansa was competent and smart, thoughtful and hardworking. The clients already took a liking to her. Sandor always got an earful from clients about how pleasant and helpful the secretary was, how she never missed a beat or dropped the ball, how she was a great asset to the firm and he was lucky to have her on board. Sandor already knew these things about Sansa and all he could do was agree with his clients.

“You know, I knew a Sansa once,” Bronn commented. He stared up at the ceiling in thought, eyes narrowed slightly. “Can’t remember the last name. Shit. What’s this girl’s last name?”

“Stark,” Sandor replied and his back straightened. He scooted towards the edge of his seat, intent to listen now. He couldn’t imagine how, but perhaps Bronn knew Sansa. _Small world…_

Bronn dug his iPhone out of his back pocket and swiped at the screen with a mischievous smile on his lips. Sandor watched the taps and the swipes until they stopped altogether and Bronn stared at his phone with a broadening smile. His gaze flickered between his screen and Sandor.

“What?” Sandor grumbled impatiently.

“Oh, I see what this is! Yeah, I bet she’s great,” Bronn hooted with laughter and ran one hand over his face. “Oh shit!” he shook his head. “I never knew a Sansa. I was fucking with you, dude.”

Bronn shoved his phone in Sandor’s face where the screen held Sansa’s image, a Facebook picture Sandor hadn’t seen before and one she must’ve posted recently. She sat on a beach towel in a blue bikini and large sunglasses obscuring her eyes. Hands lifted over her head and the length of her legs stretched in front of her, every inch of her body seemed on display, every gorgeous curve rivaled only by a beautiful smile, sweet enough that Sandor knew immediately she only smiled like that for the shit stain she called her boyfriend.

“Put it away,” Sandor snapped with misplaced jealously and anger, fists curling and cheeks burning. “Get it the fuck out of my face,” he added on a sour grumble.  

_“She’s not your girl,”_ reason seemed to caution, curbing the anger until Sandor slumped in his chair. He snatched up his drink and downed the contents, hoping that might do a number on the hypocrisy of it all. He didn’t like the idea of a drunken pervert like Bronn leering at her and yet Sandor never missed the opportunity to stare at her in the office. He could tell himself that that was different, but he couldn’t puzzle out the truth of it or discern the lines of decency.

The only truth he knew for sure was that she went home to another man and he had no right to jealousy. He held onto the anger, though, remembering the purple marks on her arm and wondering how many times they’d graced her skin before.

“Sorry, man,” Bronn mumbled and shoved the phone into his pocket. Awkward moments passed with both of them gazing into empty cups or glancing at the T.V. hung above the bar.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Sandor finally relented. “The past few days have been a bit rough.”

“No worries,” Bronn shrugged. “But, seriously, what’s her story?” he ventured with a fair bit of caution.

Sandor didn’t quite know Sansa’s story. She had a peculiar way of deflecting questions about herself and constantly kept the conversation on other things – other people, work-related matters, or trivial things.

“She moved here not too long ago,” Sandor began with uncertainty and now a burgeoning desire to know more of her, to ask the questions he hadn’t ever thought to ask. “She came here right out of grad school. Lives with her douche bag boyfriend.”

“Those are some fightin’ words,” Bronn noted with a laugh. “Why’s he a douche bag?”

“From the few things I’ve seen and heard, he just seems like a prick.” Sandor chomped on the partially melted ice from his glass. “I think he…” He lowered his voice, recognizing these weren’t his secrets to divulge. “I think he hurts her,” Sandor admitted, but no matter how quiet the words were spoken, the meaning was hardly nullified.

“No shit?” Bronn gaped and shook his head slowly. “Wow. Poor thing.”

Sandor nodded and lifted his glass to catch the waitress’ attention.

“Another double,” he shouted across the bar. “An actual double this time. And another Guinness for my friend here.”

“I was planning on stopping, you know?” Bronn chided merrily and patted Sandor on the back. “You and Annalise, how’s that going?”

Sandor sucked in a long breath and marveled at Bronn’s penchant for bringing up loaded topics. 

“Difficult.”

Sandor settled on the word long before he reached the bar. He knew Bronn would ask about Annalise. The girl seemed to dazzle Sandor’s group of friends with her laidback attitude and ability to hold her own in darts, drinking, and shooting the breeze. What they didn’t know was that Annalise was pushy and demanding, only laidback when things were going her way.

Sandor’s birthday had been an absolute cluster fuck of venomous words, broken glass, and slammed doors – an all-out battle. Sandor knew damn well he was more than partially to blame. He had been late to the restaurant for dinner; so late that Annalise was sitting at the table alone for more than a half-hour, sipping on chardonnay and fuming with fury. When he arrived, she wanted an explanation and he gave her the truth – Sansa left her wallet at her desk and he dropped it off at her dance studio. He had left out the part where Sansa was half-naked on a pole and his dick was half-hard on the drive to the restaurant. _“And I suppose she couldn’t have gone back to the office to get it herself?”_ Annalise had seethed at his explanation.

Sandor had mentioned Sansa plenty of times before and, plenty of times, Annalise responded with vague interest, more in Sandor’s work than the secretary he worked with.Odds were Annalise assumed Sansa was another derivative of his previous secretaries – old, incompetent, and heading for the door. He let something go during his birthday dinner; perhaps the way he said Sansa’s name or maybe something Annalise saw in him, something he couldn’t see in himself. For the first time, Annalise paid attention to Sansa’s name, riveted in a way she’d never been before and firing off questions, one after the other. _“How old is she? What does she look like? Does she have a boyfriend?”_

They fought that night. Sandor’s temper had found its match. Back at his place, Annalise did a number on his dishes, smashing them to the kitchen floor while Ammo growled in the corner with his tail between his legs and Sandor fumed because where the fuck did this girl get off scaring his dog like that?

In the two weeks since his birthday, Sandor was lucky if he and Annalise went a few days without a fight. Annalise pushed and Sandor pulled away. She accused him of being distant and unreachable, lost in his own world where she wasn’t quite allowed. He accused her of wanting too much, expecting more from him than what was reasonable three months into their relationship.

Last night, after a relative calm had settled between them, Annalise raised the idea of moving in together, a suggestion that sounded an awful lot like an ultimatum. The topic spawned another fight. Annalise had stormed out at fifteen minutes past midnight and Sandor watched her from the window. She sat in her car, waiting for him to follow. After yanking the curtains shut, he brushed his teeth and went to bed. This morning he had a missed text from Annalise and one from Sansa, too. Rolling out of bed with Ammo quick at his heels, he read Sansa’s message first on the way to the bathroom.

**_I just decided Tuesdays are strawberry frosted sprinkle donut days. Don’t fight me on this!_ **

He laughed heartily at her message and shook his head. In the mirror, he scratched at his emerging beard. Annalise had already made a few passive-aggressive comments about it; it tickled when he kissed her and was oddly paired with the suits he wore to work, or so she said.

“Fuck that, man,” he’d said to Ammo who cocked his head to the side and happily wagged his tail. “I’m keeping my damn beard. And I’m getting plastic dishes.”

“I’d like to see her try to break those,” he’d mumbled as his thumb tapped against the screen in response to Sansa’s text.

**_Deal. I know better than to fight you on important office decisions, little bird._ **

Annalise’s text remained unread in Sandor’s inbox. He speculated what it might say. She wasn’t one to apologize or meet him in the middle. Disagreements were often left unresolved, but this was one battle she’d wage until the bitter end. Sandor read her message during his morning commute while stuck in traffic.

**_I refuse to apologize for last night and I know you’re too fucking stubborn to even humor the idea that you’re wrong. I also refuse to be strung along by a guy who isn’t willing to commit. We need to have a serious discussion about where this is heading. I’ll call you in a few days. Don’t call or text me. I need space._ **

Sandor had thrown his phone to the passenger seat where it bounced hard and hit the floorboard with a thud. Annalise drove him crazy in all the wrong ways; all the ways he didn’t have patience for, ways that were distracting and unnecessary. He decided then she was difficult and not in some pseudo-interesting way that could pass as enticing or intriguing.

The waitress sashayed over with the next round of drinks and Sandor eyed Bronn as he sipped on his whiskey.

“Difficult?” Bronn repeated incredulously and his brows folded together.

“She wants to move in together,” Sandor said. Residual bitterness edged his words.

“That’s a big step,” Bronn nodded and paused briefly. “She’s a great girl, Sandor. I wouldn’t screw that up if I were you.”

“I’m not screwing anything up,” Sandor asserted brusquely. “If things don’t work out, they don’t work out.”

“Hey, I get it. No judgment,” Bronn assured. His hands circled his beer glass and he turned to Sandor. “I’m the last person who gets to judge relationships. You remember the disaster that was my last relationship, but here’s the burning question: the new girl in the office has absolutely nothing to do with this laissez faire attitude?”

“No.” The response came immediate – rough and insistent. Bronn took it as the truth, but Sandor wasn’t so certain of his own sincerity. For the rest of the evening, Bronn remained blithely unaware that his question – simply asked and quickly answered – had gotten under Sandor’s skin.

Later that night, hours ticked where Sandor laid in bed with the sheets twisted around his legs and Ammo softly snoring next to him. Staring at the ceiling, he toiled over Bronn’s question and only well past midnight did Sandor confront the truth.

Sansa Stark had gotten under his skin, too. He thought of her in so many ways he shouldn’t. She enticed him with intrigue that was entirely interesting and entirely real. When he turned to the emptiness on the other side of his bed, it wasn’t Annalise he envisioned filling that space. It was Sansa.

* * *

 

The next morning Sandor’s alarm blared at six on the dot and his balled fist slammed against the snooze button. His stomach burned from all the alcohol still sloshing around in an empty stomach and his head throbbed at the temples. He carefully peeled the covers away from his face and groaned at the sun seeping in through a tiny gap in his blackout curtains.

A morning workout was out of the question. Sandor pulled the covers back over his and entertained sweet visions of staying in bed all day. Reality and responsibility, as always, nagged at his queasy core. Sick days weren’t a luxury he had, especially not today.

Today was a surveillance day, the old “hurry up and wait” routine, which he counted as the dullest facet of an otherwise satisfying career. Ammo pawed at the blankets and whined. His nose managed to break the seal created by the sheets and pressed wet against Sandor’s cheek.

“I’m up,” Sandor grumbled and extracted himself from the crumpled sheets. He had tossed and turned all night, waking almost every hour from some strange dream that never seemed to end. He promptly took four Advil and stood beneath the steaming water of his shower with his forehead pressed against the tiled wall. His body ached, shoulders throbbing as if he’d slept in some unearthly contortion. His legs felt as though he’d already ran his usual three-mile morning loop. 

Out of the shower, Sandor still felt like shit. _It’s my own damn fault…_

He left the bar sober enough to know there would be hell to pay this morning. Indeed, he felt like he’d been dragged through hell and back in his sleep.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he groused and glowered at the pile of laundry in the corner of his bedroom.

That same pile had been there all week and all week Sandor had been making a mental note to drop it off at the cleaners. The two dichotomies of his wardrobe hung on their respective ends of the closet – finely tailored suits reserved for important meetings and a collection of jeans and plain T-shirts.

“Jeans and a T-shirt it is. Tonight is laundry night,” he declared to Ammo who tilted his head to the side. “Don’t let me forget.”

Sandor dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He pulled his damp hair back into a bun and shoved a pair of sunglasses on his face in hopes it would mask the circles beneath his eyes.

With a piece of buttered toast between his teeth and his messenger bag thrown over his shoulder, Sandor slipped into his leather jacket and grabbed a book of crossword puzzles on the way out the door. Ammo watched him from the living room window with sad eyes and drawn back ears and Sandor backed out of the driveway with the usual pang of guilt.

He navigated the maze of city side streets that he knew like the back of his hand, cut through neighborhoods running parallel to the highway gridlocked with traffic, and avoided the streets that were dotted with stoplights. Eventually, he ended up on a quiet, tree-lined row of expensive townhouses on the northwest side of the city. The neighborhood was popular with the disenchanted cadre of yuppies who’d seen suburbia for what it was – a lackluster, soul-crushing shithole. City living meant having something halfway interesting to talk about at all those pretentious dinner parties and posh gallery openings.

The surveillance target was an investment banker who put his mistress up in one of the townhouses. The woman spent most nights alone while the man kept up appearances with his wife and two young children.

Sandor loathed infidelity cases, but cheating was rampant among the wealthy. Jilted spouses hardly batted an eye at what Sandor charged them for snapping a few photographs of two-timing husbands and wives in the arms of their paramours. The investment banker’s wife certainly had no qualms about doling out her husband’s cash to catch him in the act.

_What goes around comes around…_

Reaching into his messenger bag, Sandor fished out his camera and the crossword book. He propped the book against the steering wheel in the line of sight of his target’s front door. Thirty-two across was the linchpin of the whole puzzle and a real pain in his ass. He didn’t even like crosswords all that much, but he’d be goddamned if he didn’t at least finish this one. The faded marks of erased letters taunted him, a solid effort that’d blown up in his face all because of thirty-two across.

“Humorous exaggeration,” he sighed out loud.

Sandor lifted his eyes over the steering wheel and stared down the street at the tall trees bearing yellow and orange leaves. The same leaves were plastered to the sidewalk still damp from last night’s rain. Sansa talked about autumn more often than she realized - the leaves, the smells, the cold air, warm blankets, cups of tea, cloud cover and grey afternoons burrowed in bed with books. She seemed to come alive with each dying day of summer or perhaps she was more open with him now, revealing more of herself as time and trust allowed.

He reached for his phone on what felt like instinct, a need to say something to her, but Sandor let it tumble from one hand to the other, back and forth as he contemplated what Sansa was doing at this very moment. Was she busy or bored? Did she see the leaves this morning when she left for work? Did she wax poetic about autumn to that dipshit boyfriend? And did that dipshit care one way or another?

The tumbling of Sandor’s phone stopped and he scrolled through his contacts until he found Sansa’s name. Their first foray into texting one another – the short exchange about Tuesday donuts – appeared on his screen and a smile crept across his lips.

**_Little bird, I need your help. Humorous exaggeration. Six letters. Second letter is an “a”…parody?_ **

Sandor sent the message and intended to sift through unread emails. However, a subtle twinge of guilt led him to Annalise’s last text message. He hadn’t looked at it since first reading it and, on a second reading, found it no less irritating. The guilt immediately dissipated, but his conscience wasn’t so easily quelled. In some strange way, he felt indebted to Annalise and that he should be sorry for something.

**_Try satire. Things slow in the field? ;)_ **

Sansa’s message popped up, replacing Annalise’s angry diatribe on his screen. Sandor scribbled down “satire” at the top of the crossword page and threw the book to the back seat. He glanced at the clock and then at the target’s townhouse.

**_Yup. How are things on the home front?_ **

Sandor settled in his seat with the camera on his lap. The target’s morning trysts rarely lasted this long. He chewed his lip and cursed beneath his breath. Speculative paranoia took hold – all the “what ifs?” tumbling about his mind. What if the guy left early for work? What if his wife insisted he spend last night with her? What if the guy caught wind he was being watched? Sandor’s phone buzzed in his hand, a welcomed distraction from surmounting frustration.

**_Riveting as always. Emails. Collating documents. Ordering more of those pens you like._ **

With another unbidden smile and a soft, exhaled laugh, Sandor’s thumb quickly tapped at the screen.

**_Fuck yeah. Order blue ones too. Please._ **

He tossed his phone in his lap and ran his hands over his face, his palms smoothing through his facial hair. Sandor sat up in his seat and looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror. He found himself still smiling, but the joy didn’t exclusively reside on his lips. It also manifested behind his eyes too.

_I look happy,_ he thought and glanced at his phone. No new messages from Sansa. He settled back in his seat and made a concerted effort to wipe the smirk off his face.

Sandor never understood the goofy grins he spotted on people as they stared at their phones in line at the coffee shop or on the metro. He’d watch it all play out and scoff at how terribly annoying it seemed; the slow smiles that erupted into sheer delight, the frantic response, and then the agony of waiting, the incessant checking for a response.

Of course, the phenomenon was nothing more than a dopamine rush; the waiting on baited breath for a new text message, email, or alert to come through, all of it was simply an addiction to the contrived dopamine hit.

**_Got it. Oh! A new Thai place is opening up around the corner from us. I saw it as I was walking to our building. Wanna try it when it opens?_ **

Sandor never got into the texting fad. He begrudgingly parted with his flip phone in favor of the blackberry so that he could check work emails. Bronn laughed his head off at the sight of Sandor carefully typing out messages with fingers far too large for such a small keyboard. Anything beyond a two or three word text ended in utter frustration on his part.

**_I saw that too. I meant to mention it to you. Yeah, let’s try it. It can’t be any worse than the Thai place we went to last week. This stake out sucks by the way…_ **

Luckily, most people Sandor knew weren’t avid texters either. Bronn and his other friends couldn’t care less. Annalise only felt inspired to send full-blown essays in text message form when she was pissed.

Sandor’s knee bobbed and his camera bounced in turn. He stared at the screen of the phone until it went black. Minutes passed and then a few more, but time seemed to drag on. He rolled down the window to invite a cool breeze through the car. The phone buzzed in his hand and Sandor released a sigh from his lips.

**_That place was awful! Never again! Bored already?_ **

He shook his head and groaned. The target’s car was still parked in the same place with leaves covering the hood and windshield. One by one, he’d watched as the surrounding neighbors scurried off to work.

**_You have no idea._ **

Normally, surveillance wasn’t so awful; boring, definitely, but Sandor never found himself quite so antsy and restless. He wanted to be done with it, to be back at the office, at his desk, doing something productive. The day felt incomplete and off, his routine cannibalized by waking up hung-over and now sitting here hostage to another person’s schedule. The phone buzzed in his hand once more and flush moved through him, another wave of calm relief.

**_Sounds like you need someone to keep you company next time…hint…hint…_ **

A chuckle burst through his lips. With careful precision, Sandor crafted his next message.    

**_Good idea. Be a doll and put out an ad for a new hire. Someone to ride along for surveillance._ **

Sandor lifted his eyes out the window once more. In the past few weeks, Sansa increasingly dropped hints that she wanted to take on a larger role in the office. Sandor knew she was more than capable, yet he still grappled with the reluctance he felt to indoctrinate her into his side of the business. Her side was numbers, reports, paper pushing, and client interaction. His was digging into the grittier details, proactive instincts, getting into the weeds with the leads that came through.

Sansa could do it. He knew she could, but they’d spend even more time together, both in the office and in the field. He’d need to hire someone to fulfill Sansa’s role when she wasn’t around. That meant a disruption to the comfortable dynamic they’d established, a third wheel of infiltrating the office.

Sandor looked at his phone. No response. He counted the minutes on the clock and understood now something of the agony of text messages. He reread his response and scrutinized the message, reading between the lines of sarcasm as Sansa might have and wondering if she could take the joke for what it was. His phone buzzed and Sandor nearly jumped in his seat. A grin formed preemptively on his lips.

**_Rude >:( No blue pens for you, sir!_ **

“Alright, little bird. You got me,” he muttered with exuberant relief and began typing his response.  Outside his window, a faint rustling of leaves caught his attention and Sandor’s gaze flew towards his target’s apartment. With a briefcase in hand, the man hurried to his car in a wrinkled suit and a tie thrown around his neck.

Sandor’s phone plummeted to his lap and he fumbled for the camera. He snapped what shots he could before the man disappeared into his Porsche and barreled down the street. The pictures turned out worthless; the ones that weren’t blurry were inconsequential. Sandor didn’t need shots of this jackleg getting into his car. He needed pictures of the man arm-in-arm with his mistress.

“What a fucking waste,” Sandor sighed and tossed the camera to the passenger seat. He retrieved his phone, but looked in horror at his screen. An aptly worded response had been inadvertently sent to Sansa.

**_Kidding. You’re perfect_ **

“Fuck!” he shouted and quickly sent the second half of his intended message.

**_For the job_ **

“Goddamn it.” Sandor slammed his palm against the steering wheel and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “This. This is why I don’t text,” he reminded himself and promptly placed the phone into the center console with the screen facing away from him.

For good measure, Sandor turned the radio up to drown out any buzzing from his phone and peeled away from the curb. Three stoplights later, Sandor decided texting was for chumps, a breeding ground for misunderstandings and opportunities to make an ass out of oneself.

By the time he was halfway to the office, Sandor began casting intermittent gazes towards his phone. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, but his curiosity waxed and his resolve waned. Stuck at a railroad crossing, he snatched up the phone. A new message sat in his inbox, sent ten minutes earlier, which was two minutes after his last text.

**_Thanks! For a minute there I thought maybe you were paying me a serious compliment…_ **

Sandor felt his brows fold together in confusion as he stared at the screen.

“What the fuck does dot, dot, dot mean?” He watched the railcars roll by and wondered if Sansa waited impatiently for his response too. Was she antsy? Did her hands shake? Did her heart beat fast? God, this was a mind fuck and a half, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t enthralling in some weird way.

_How do I play this?_

Sandor chewed his lip once more, biting at dead skin until he tasted blood. Annalise always got on his case when she caught him doing it. She’d offer him a tube of chapstick and complain about how annoying it was. He never understood how worked up she got over it. Of all the things he could be doing with his lips, chewing on them was hardly the worst. There were a great many things Sandor could be doing with his lips that would surely and justifiably piss Annalise off. A devious smirk flashed across his mouth and Sandor turned his attention back to his phone.

_Keep it simple. Not a big deal._

Sandor snorted a derisive laugh and immediately deleted the response.

“Naw? What am I? A fucking gangster?” he mumbled to himself and he typed out another message.

**_Hah. No._ **

“Too harsh.” He shook his head and erased that message too.

**_Maybe I was._ **

With the phone cradled in his hand, Sandor studied the text. Annalise crossed his mind and he envisioned what she might say if she somehow saw this exchange. Would she be angry? She’d have every right to be, but for what? Was he crossing a line?

_Fuck it. Annalise broke my dishes and scared my dog._

The justification was weak, even he knew that, but he sent the message before his guilty conscience could enumerate all the reasons he shouldn’t. The guilt never came, though. Not even as the last railcar passed him by and the gate lifted. As he neared the office, Sandor felt the phone buzz in his lap.

**_I’m flattered you think so fondly of me. The feeling is mutual._ **

He frowned at the message, but had no doubts she’d sent it with partial intentions of making him smile. She was incredible in that way and frustrating too. Did she always extend these kind words to everyone indiscriminately? He could smile like a buffoon at her message and pretend it was just for him, a secret sentiment she paid to no others, but where exactly was the truth in that? His own truths were complicated enough. He didn’t need to navigate hers as well.

**_You’re a terrible liar._ **

Sandor sent the message and buried his phone in his bag, once and for all. The remainder of the drive was silent. He parked in his usual spot behind the office building and gathered his belongings from the passenger seat. His phone illuminated the inside of his bag – a new message from Sansa. Sandor read it with less enthusiasm as before.

**_No lies here, Mr. Clegane. No lies._ **

He knew she meant it in a nominal sense; perhaps the escapism was what enthralled her. He saw the way she looked at him, just like she saw the way he looked at her. The elephant in the room remained and, at times, he wanted nothing more than to just bury it.

_Get it over with. Address the issue. Move on._  

He’d tell himself this often when he couldn’t stop himself from staring at her, watching and studying each move she made, wondering what her lips tasted like, or how her skin would feel against his hands. Would she smile for him like she did in the photographs her boyfriend took? Would she say his name as he fucked her slowly or maybe even roughly, however the hell she wanted it? Would she curl up next to him, body molded against his, as she filled the empty space in his bed?

Something needed to be done. To keep it professional, Sandor decided if push came to shove, he’d say something, but then what exactly would he say that she didn’t already know? That he wanted her? That he thought about her almost constantly? That there were times he’d look at all the ways Annalise filled his life and wished it were Sansa instead?

Sandor’s mood soured. Bernie at the front desk averted his gaze when Sandor stomped across the lobby. Reality was plain to see now. Text messages and exchanged glances meant nothing when the two of them were tied up in other relationships. Shit was going to get messy. People were going to get hurt. If his time handling infidelity cases taught him anything, it was that these things always ended disastrously.

He pushed through the entrance of the office and found Sansa across the room, perched in the window with a book in her hands.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed sweetly with genuine excitement.

Her hair was gathered on the top of her head and the strands that flowed from the nape of her neck caught the light of the sun streaming in. Instead of her normal work clothes, she wore jeans and a tight fitting blue sweater. She hopped from the windowsill with her phone clutched in one hand and the book in the other. Oversized, black-rimmed glasses fell halfway down her nose when she stared nervously at her feet and shifted side-to-side with a steady blush creeping across her cheeks.

“I thought you’d text to say you were coming back,” she exhaled on a laugh and tucked her phone into her back pocket.

On either side of the room, they both stared at one another, but not in the usual way. Something else existed between them that hadn’t quite been there before; something purer, something genuine, and something undeniable.

His resolve deteriorated in real time and seeing her standing there felt like a punch to the gut. He reeled for no reason whatsoever. Sansa curiously eyed the tattoos that adorned the length of both his arms. In turn, he marveled at how she was no less beautiful wearing old jeans, a sweater, and red chucks as she was in her regular work clothes.

“I guess we both got the memo,” she quipped while eying his casual attire for the day.

“I guess so. Nice glasses,” he added and took a step towards her. Sansa followed his lead, still timid if the biting of her bottom lip and her downturned glances were anything to go by.

“Thanks. I look like a nerd,” she giggled and self-consciously pushed the glasses up her nose.

“You look fine,” Sandor responded with another step towards her. A few feet of space separated them, hardly the closest they’d ever been before. Electricity seemed to flow between them, now; a rampant and mutual magnetism, which only manifested in continued stares and a long silence. They studied one another with renewed interest and soft smiles.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a ton of work to do.” Sansa motioned her head towards Sandor’s office. “So I’ll let you get to it,” she added graciously.

He nodded and glanced at his desk still covered over with papers from yesterday. He hadn’t read a single new email today and could only imagine how many voicemails were waiting for him. None of that compelled him enough to retreat towards his office. He remained rooted in place and looked to Sansa once more.  She ran her fingertips over the spine of the marketing book in her hands. The smile on her lips struck him as somehow different, but familiar nonetheless. He’d only seen her mouth curl in that way a few times before, only in pictures and only for that dipshit boyfriend.

“Grab your purse, four eyes,” Sandor spoke gruffly. “We’ll work later.”

“What?” Sansa tilted her head in confusion and one brow lifted quizzically.

“That fucking thing is useless,” Sandor declared and pointed at the Keurig that’d been broken for weeks now. “We’re going to get a new coffee maker. Right now.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up and she eagerly nodded her head before dashing towards her desk. She quickly tucked her book into the top drawer and snatched up her purse.

“Can we go to a field and hit it with a bat like in _Office Space_?” she asked near breathless.

Sandor stared blankly at Sansa for a moment, long enough that she blushed again and averted her eyes to her brightly colored shoes. He burst into laughter, real laughter because he could only imagine Sansa beating the Keurig to bits. Then again, what exactly did he know? Perhaps that’s exactly what she needed to do.

“One thing at a time, little bird.” Sandor flicked off the lights to the office and Sansa set the phone system to voicemail. They hurried from the office and down the stairs towards the lobby.

“Closing up for the day?” Bernie asked when he saw them heading for the front door.

“We’re going on an adventure!” Sansa hollered back with bubbling excitement.

The morning air outside was crisp and cool. Sansa lifted her head to sun and smiled. Sandor watched her and waited for her to comment on the leaves or how the chilly breeze meant fall was finally here. She said nothing to that extent, but instead she slipped shyly into the passenger seat of his black Mustang.

“Wow,” Sansa mouthed as she studied the pristine interior of the vehicle. “This is nice.”

“Thanks. I think so too.” Sandor turned the engine. With his arm draped around Sansa’s headrest, he backed out of the parking space.

“Joffrey drives a white car. I think it’s ugly and stupid.”

Sandor huffed a laugh and shook his head. Sansa bit her bottom lip and studied her hands folded in her lap.

“Well, if the shoe fits…” Sandor shrugged and glanced towards Sansa. She cracked a half-smile, the corner of her lip upturned, but she remained quiet and gazed out the window as they headed down the city street.

“I have a few other things I need to get while we’re out. Dishes, mostly,” Sandor added when the silence held too much awkwardness for his liking.

“Well, if that’s the case, we should probably go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond,” Sansa offered and pointed towards the highway on-ramp up ahead.

“Right,” Sandor agreed.

In the periphery of his vision he could see Sansa watching him, seemingly mesmerized by the way he shifted gears and checked his mirrors, the way he draped his wrist over the steering wheel and flicked through radio stations.  Annalise liked the way he drove for some reason. _“It’s when you shift gears. I think it’s hot. Shows off your muscles,”_ she’d say before leaning over the center console and kissing his cheek. He wondered if Sansa thought the same thing and then allowed his mind to drift towards thoughts of her lips against his cheek.

Sandor glanced in her direction, a shameless excuse to sneak a glimpse of those lips, but instead he found Sansa gazing intently at him. Her eyes widened and she quickly averted her gaze.

“So did you catch him?” she asked as Sandor navigated towards the left lane of the highway.

“Who?” he responded, weaving around slower cars and into the fast lane.

“The bad guy. The cheater!” Sansa always loved when Sandor nailed the two-timers and brought her back the photos to include in the final write-up. She’d shake her head at the picture and mumble a few colorful words. Something told him she lived vicariously through the justice of it all. She was sensitive to the other cases, but not like she was to the infidelity cases.

“No,” Sandor shook his head and grinned in her direction. “Well, sort of. I was preoccupied so I missed the prime photo op.”

“Right,” Sansa smiled. “The crossword puzzle! Was it satire?”

Sandor drifted towards the highway exit and glanced briefly in Sansa’s direction. He thought she’d made a joke – a little jab at their morning text message exchange – but she appeared genuinely interested, anticipating a response from him.

“Yeah. Satire,” he agreed because she was probably right about the thirty-two across and he didn’t feel like correcting her on the actual distraction.

A short distance later, Sandor pulled into a blessedly sparse parking lot of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. He parked in the front row and turned off the engine. Out of sheer habit, he circled around the front of the car to Sansa’s door. When he opened it for her, her eyes fluttered towards him in pure bewilderment before her lips blossomed into a soft smile.

He followed her towards the entrance of the store and, once inside, gazed up at the tall shelves stocked full of unnecessary kitchenware; the things people think they need, but ultimately end up at a garage sale years down the road.

“Alright, coffee maker and dishes. I’m so excited!” Sansa nearly gasped as she appeared next to him with a cart.

“Here, I’ll drive seeing as how you’re drunk on excitement,” Sandor japed with a rough laugh. Sansa surrendered the cart and Sandor rested his forearms on the front handle as they strolled down an aisle vacant of customers.

They passed rows of bake ware and kitchen linens and Sansa pointed out all the things she wanted in her dream kitchen: heavy baking pans, a new KitchenAid mixer in cornflower blue, baby blue spatulas, a pink and white cupcake stand. The list went on and Sandor felt his lips curl into a smile with each item she listed. Whenever she spotted an item from her wish list in an aisle, she’d dash towards it, yank it from the shelf, and proudly hold it out towards him.

“See how beautiful it is!” she’d beam.

“Yes, I see, little bird,” Sandor would reply, still perched in front of the cart, leaning against the handle and finding it infinitely harder to take his eyes off of her.

After zig-zagging through aisles with detours along the way, they reached the row of coffee makers. With his hands settled on his hips, Sandor silently scrutinized the dozen or so options in front of him. He cupped his chin with one hand and scratched at his beard.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that another Keurig is out of the question,” he pondered out loud, but Sansa had gone quite. He turned to find her staring at her phone in her hand. Her face, only moments before glowing with absolute delight, was now a visage of worry.

‘Will we work late tonight?” she murmured.

“I don’t think so, no,” Sandor shrugged. “Why? Hot date?”

“Yeah right,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Joff was just asking.” She typed out a quick response and tossed her phone into her purse.

“You’ll be home at a decent hour, I’m sure.” Sandor’s consolation was meager, at best.  The girl obviously didn’t want to be home at a decent hour, or any hour, if it meant returning to that asshole she lived with.

“This one?” Sandor pulled a coffee maker from the shelf, one without all the mystery buttons or fancy attachments. A simple coffee maker was all he needed; something that could handle making strong, black coffee.

Sansa responded with a forlorn nod. She crossed her arms over her chest and gazed sadly down the aisle, perhaps towards all the accouterments of her dream kitchen. Sandor watched her silently. He wanted to tell her that nothing she dreamed of was too much to ask – her dream kitchen, the man she wanted Joffrey to be, or the relationship she yearned for. None of it was too terribly much to ask.

“If I remember correctly, you’re not a coffee drinker,” Sandor said instead. Next to the coffee makers, a handful of electric teakettles were put on display. “I think we need to even the scales a bit. Which one would you use?”

Sansa’s eyes went wide and glanced at him then at the kettles.

“Well, no. I mean…we…you don’t have to get a kettle. I can just microwave water.” Sansa uncrossed her arms and folded her hands in front of her. She rocked nervously back and forth on her toes.

“No. We’re getting an electric teakettle and I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Sandor asserted and pulled one from the shelf. “This one?” He held it out to Sansa who carefully took it from his hands.

Unlike all the metal and plastic electric kettles, this one was white ceramic with a pale blue design that looked like something from Sansa’s dream kitchen – delicate and feminine, the things that made her smile.

“It’s so pretty.” She gazed down at the box in her hands. “Yeah. This one is perfect,” she nodded with a smile.

“Then this is the one we’ll get.” Sandor took the box from her and placed it in the cart.  

“So what does your boyfriend do for a living?” Sandor asked when they strolled back to the main aisle. He didn’t rightly care what her boyfriend did for a living, but his curiosity centered mostly on what exactly Sansa saw in the guy. Maybe theirs was a relationship of convenience, of having known each other a long time.

“He does marketing at his father’s company, Lannister Enterprises,” Sansa replied on a sigh. She ran her fingers across orderly stacks of plush towels as they passed the bathroom section. “We met in grad school.”

Sandor nodded his head slowly. If she met the guy in grad school, they couldn’t have been together that long, two years tops. The information both troubled and intrigued him.

“What about Annalise?” Sansa turned to him, the interest heavy in her eyes. She tried to hide it by casually studying the colorful bathroom displays lining the shevles.

“She teaches high school math.”

“A mathematician. Impressive,” Sansa replied while twirling a wispy strand of hair around her finger. Another question was on the tip of her tongue. Sandor could tell by the way she looked at him then looked away, back and forth, until she finally spoke again, this time with trepidation. “Do you and Annalise live together?”

Sandor buried his face in the palm of his hand to muffle his laughter. He slowly ran his hand through his hair and shook his head.

“No,” he chuckled. “As soon as I got out of the army, I wanted nothing more than to live alone, but I knew the day would come when a girlfriend would want to live with me.”

“And has that day come?” Sansa queried and ducked into an aisle of pictures frames and headed towards a back wall full of candles. Sandor left the cart at the end of the row and ambled after her with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. She breached the topic a few nights ago. The conversation didn’t go so well.”

“It could be nice,” Sansa shrugged. She pulled a candle from the shelf and brought it to her nose, which wrinkled at the scent. “You’d have someone to come home to. Someone to eat dinner with, watch movies with, that sort of thing.” She put the candle back on the shelf and smiled at him. “It’s just nice,” she spoke gently.  

“And that’s what you and Joffrey do?” Sandor probed and matched her eyes. Her smile faded and he saw the sadness come sweeping in. He knew then that loneliness was the only thing waiting for her at home, except those nights her dipshit boyfriend wanted her home early.

“We used to. He’s had this huge ongoing project at work so it keeps him at the office late.”

Sandor nodded. He called bullshit on the “ongoing project.” The project was Joffrey’s entire career and an excuse to treat his girlfriend like shit. Sandor faced Sansa and leaned with his shoulder against the shelf of scented candles.

“What are you going to do about Annalise wanting to live with you?” Sansa asked the question with her nose buried in another candle.

Sandor chewed his lip and slumped further against the shelf.  

“I have no idea,” he grumbled. “She’s not talking to me right now.”

Sansa’s gaze shifted towards him and she shook her head sympathetically while replacing the candle on the shelf.

“That’s not good.” She turned towards him and matched his eyes with a deliberate stare. In the small amount of space between them, she spoke on a hushed voice.

“Okay, I’m going to ask you a question. You have to answer right away with yes or no. No thinking about it, just answer with the first one that comes to your mind. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Sandor nodded, edging closer to her. “Got it.”

“Do you want to live with Annalise?” Sansa asked.

“No,” Sandor responded without missing a beat.

“There’s your answer,” Sansa said. “If you don’t want to live with her, you shouldn’t, but you should be honest with her.”

“I already told her I don’t want to live together, but she wants to know why and I don’t have an answer to that.”

His feelings for Annalise had waned since his birthday debacle. He thought about offering that up to Annalise as an explanation for why he didn’t want to live together, but she would’ve pushed for the reasons why he didn’t feel the same. Further and further, they’d head down a rabbit hole of those reasons when perhaps the answer was simple. He looked at Sansa again and watched as she drew in a shaky breath.

“Do you love her?” Of all the questions she’d asked about Annalise, all the inexplicably curious inquires, this one came plainly. He detected no hesitation on her part, no fretful reserve. Instead, Sansa seemed to steel herself in anticipation of his answer.

“No,” Sandor confessed. “I could with time, I think, but no, I don’t love her,” he added truthfully. Sansa nodded with a sweet smile and turned back to the shelf in front of her.

“Are you in love with Joffrey?” Sandor asked bluntly, making no effort to stop the question from coming.

With her hands wrapped around the glass jar of a candle, Sansa stared down at it and drew in a deep breath.

“Don’t ask me that,” she replied and her pretty mouth fell into a frown.

“You asked about Annalise,” Sandor countered.

“That’s different.” Sansa turned towards him and shoved the candle in his face. “What do you think of this one?”

Sandor recoiled at the offensive odor of putrid floral arrangements and gently pushed the candle away from his nose.

“Great, if you’re an old lady with seventeen cats and a Wednesday night bridge club,” he snorted irreverently.

“Maybe you should get something for Annalise. Something to let her know you care. I’ll help you pick it out.”

Sansa beamed again, but the light behind her eyes seemed artificial now, sweet for the sake masking an unsavory sentiment.

“Like what? That candle for spinsters?” Sandor motioned his head towards the candle in Sansa’s hand. “That’ll send a message. No. She’s not that type of girl. She wants space so that’s what I’m giving her.”

 “She doesn’t want space!” Sansa asserted with sudden force. “She wants you to show her she means something to you.”

“She asked for space, Sansa,” Sandor responded with equal irritation. “She doesn’t play mind games where she says one thing, but really means something else and expects me to understand the difference. That’s why I like her.”

Annalise’s no-bullshit attitude was one of her more loveable traits and perhaps why Sandor let her into his life in the first place. He had no patience to navigate the highly nuanced complexities of some women. Sansa fell silent and, with the silence, a strong somberness enveloped them. The exchange had quickly become heated, both in what was said and all the things that neither of them could speak. That was the problem. All those unspoken words were really a powder keg waiting to be ignited.

With yet another candle in her hands, Sansa appeared crestfallen, as though the wind had been knocked out her. Her face paled and her lips trembled.

“I know. You’ve said that before.” She exhaled an empty, mirthless laugh and her shoulders rolled in a defeated shrug. “What about this one?”

Sansa held the candle towards him, but refused to look at him. She gazed down at her shoes, arm outstretched and wavering as she awaited his opinion.

“Hey.” Sandor took a step towards her and stared at Sansa pleadingly.

“It’s pumpkin cupcake. I love fall candles,” she informed tremulously.

“Look at me,” Sandor insisted on a low rasp and with another step towards her.

“No,” she whispered and pulled the candle away from him.

“Yes.” Sandor gently wrapped his hand around her upper arm and turned Sansa towards him, but her gaze remained focused straight ahead, landing squarely against his chest. He brushed his fingers beneath her chin and tipped her head up to look at him. “What’s the matter?” he murmured.

“Nothing’s the matter.” He expected to find sadness in her eyes when she finally looked at him. Instead, she regarded him quizzically. His fingers still rested beneath her chin and his hand still cupped her upper arm. They stood a few inches apart, locked at the eyes for longer than was appropriate until the subtle intimacy between them came to an abrupt end. Sandor’s arms fell to his side and he took a step away from Sansa.  

“This is the one you like?” He took the candle from her hands and brought it to his nose. The scent was sweet and warm with a faint spiciness of cinnamon and clove. Sansa wordlessly nodded and her cheeks burned red.  

“It’s nice,” Sandor admitted. “I tell you what. It’s on me. Don’t burn it at the office, though.”

“You don’t have to. You’re already getting the teakettle,” Sansa reasoned through a smile.

“The teakettle is for Sansa my employee. The candle is for Sansa my friend,” Sandor reasoned plainly and headed for the cart. “Now, help me pick out dishes. They have to be plastic.”

“Plastic?” Sansa repeated incredulously. Her brows lifted and she laughed merrily at his stipulation.

“Yeah. Long story,” Sandor shook his head. “Wanna grab lunch after this?”

“Yes! I’m starving,” Sansa replied and her face lit up. “It’s food truck day in Tower Grove Park! The Mexican torta truck is amazing!”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Sandor said as he followed Sansa back towards the kitchen section.

Plastic dishes were a scarcity in a store that sold damn near everything else. With four sets to choose from, Sandor settled for a simple black and grey striped pattern. Sansa complimented the set and carried on about how it seemed to suit him.

On the drive to Tower Grove Park, Sansa forced the “long story” about the broken dishes out of him. She listened sympathetically as Sandor recounted how Annalise threw open his kitchen cabinet and hurled his dishes to the floor. Her sympathy turned to horror when Sandor added the bit about Ammo cowering in the corner.

“Poor puppy!” she shook her head and anger seemed to take hold.

Sandor changed the subject when they crossed the park towards the line of food trucks. He didn’t mean to vilify Annalise. She wasn’t exactly his favorite woman right now, but Sandor suddenly felt uncomfortable continuing the conversation about her. Similarly, Sansa seemed to tense with the mention of Annalise’s name.

They walked side-by-side through the winding path of the park with the leaves crunching beneath their feet. After ordering their food, they weaved between tall trees towards an empty bench. A gentle breeze picked up around them, cool against the warm sun and rustling through the autumn gradient of leaves. Sansa titled her head back as she took a seat and gazed dreamily at the swaying canopy above them.

“Today is perfect,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Sandor agreed with a nod before biting into his torta. “Wow. That’s good,” he managed between mouthfuls.

“I told you!” Sansa giggled. She rolled up the sleeves of her sweater and took a delicate bite of her lunch.

Sandor glimpsed the marks on her arm, which were a deeper purple today. He tried to reconcile the simple pleasures that brought a smile to her lips and the bruises marring her porcelain skin. She didn’t ask for much. How on earth could it be so terribly hard for Joffrey to make her happy?

Sandor dropped his torta back into the Styrofoam box it came in. His appetite swiftly vanished.

“What happened to your arm?” Sandor asked quietly when she turned a bemused glance in his direction.

“Oh,” she gasped and rotated her arm to stare at the bruises. “Dance class. I’m a klutz.” She brushed off the question with a laugh, but immediately averted her gaze to the Styrofoam container in her lap and picked at her torta.

Sandor wondered how many times she’d practiced that lie before. It rolled off her tongue effortlessly and the smile she gave was broken, shattered behind the eyes, though, her lips knew the routine just fine.

“Where’s your family?” He tried to ask gently, but the question came more demanding than he intended.

“Oregon, mostly. My siblings, except my youngest brothers, are all over the place.” Sansa’s smile vanished and she yanked the sleeves of her sweater down to cover her arms.

“So it’s just you here out here? By yourself?”

“Well, no. Joffrey-” Sansa began, but Sandor interrupted.

“I mean besides him, who do you have out here?” he questioned urgently.

“I have my friend Margaery. My sister is four hours away.” Sansa looked to Sandor and shrugged. “And you. We’re friends now.” Meant as a statement, Sandor could still hear the questioning in her voice.

“Absolutely,” he agreed with a firm nod.

Sansa shut the lid of the Styrofoam box and set it on the bench next to her. She drew in a deep breath before she spoke.

“I know what you’re really asking, Sandor. He hasn’t done this before. He can be awful, but this has never happened before.”

She looked at him as though she wanted, more than anything, for him to believe her. Sandor wasn’t so sure it made a difference. One instance of _anyone_ hurting her was one time too many.

“I know what you’re thinking too,” she shook her head and her hands trembled even as she wrung them together. “I must be stupid or insecure to stay with him.”

“I’ve never thought those things about you, Sansa.” He placed his hands on top of hers, if nothing more than to quell her trembling. “None of this is your fault. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

Sansa swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks and nodded.

“I’m leaving him,” she declared with a sniffle. “I’ve been looking at apartments.”

More tears broke free and, though she tried to hide it, he saw the fear in her. Sandor scooted closer to Sansa and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest.

“If you ever need anything, anything at all, you know you can call me,” he murmured.

He felt her nod and relax against his chest. Her arms encircled his middle and her head rested against his shoulder.  

“I know. Thank you,” she whispered and extracted herself from his arms. “I just feel so stupid,” she added and buried her face in her palms. Her back heaved gently with silent cries.

Sandor never knew what to do when women cried. Tears would well in their eyes and he’d inadvertently turn to stone; never knowing what to say or if he should say anything. With Sansa crying next to him, he felt helpless, but resolved himself to tell her something he hardly told anyone.

“I was on deployment when this happened.” Sandor pointed to the scars covering half of his face. Sansa always politely averted her gaze from the marred skin and never asked where the scars came from. Now, she looked at him squarely in the face; an honest, hard look that he admired.

“I was in a Humvee at the front of a convoy and caught an IED trip wire. When I came to, an Iraqi soldier was holding my hand and leaning over me as the medevac helicopter circled above. None of that is really important, but he said something I haven’t ever forgotten. It’s one of the few things from that time that I still think about often.”

“What’d he say?” Sansa encouraged gently.

“The wound is where the light enters. It’s from a Persian poet.”

In the throes of PTSD that trumped the scars on his face in terms of enduring pain, those words had taken on new meaning for Sandor.

“I guess what’ I’m trying to say is: when you get to thinking that that makes you weaker,” he motioned his head towards Sansa’s arms, “or means you’re less of something – less smart, less brave, less strong – just remember that wounds mean you’ve endured something and made it through to the other side.”  

Sansa whimpered softly as she struggled against fresh tears and threw her arms around him. Sandor returned the hug and relished her warmth bleeding into his skin, pressed hard against his chest as she squeezed him tighter. When she let go, she wiped the tears from her cheek and sighed.

“There’s this apartment near the Hill that I’m supposed to look at sometime next week,” Sansa said. “Thursday, I think. It would be in the late afternoon.”

“Take a half-day or even the full day. Whatever you need,” Sandor insisted.

“Well, I was actually thinking that if you’re not too busy, you might want to go with me. You know the city a lot better than I do.” She looked at him as if he might tell her no or that work took precedent; that she could go, but he needed to stay.

“Sure. Just let me know the time and I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Really?” Sansa’s lips broke into a smile.

“Of course,” Sandor chuckled.

They were friends, he and Sansa. Sandor opened up to her more than he had to Bronn. Sansa shared things with him he doubted she told her friends or family. The understanding seemed to strike them both.

Sansa popped open the lid of her Styrofoam container and resumed eating her lunch.

“I thought you taught that dance class on Thursday,” Sandor mused with a subtle grin. Yet another elephant in the room, Sansa seemed content to never talk about how he barreled into her dance class and found her hanging upside down from a pole.

“I do. Margaery is going to cover the class that day.”

Sandor’s half-grin broadened to a mischievous smile as he stared at Sansa.

“What?” she laughed.

“Are you going to tell me what the deal is with the stripper class?” he prodded and lifted one brow.

“It’s not a stripper class!” Sansa insisted and playfully swatted his arm.

“I mean, where’d you learn how to do that?” Sandor asked, the question now sincere. After the initial confusion and subsequent arousal, Sandor had spent many slow afternoons and quiet nights thinking about Sansa pole dancing and finding himself increasingly impressed more than anything else.

“I wasn’t a former stripper, if that’s what you’re asking!” Sansa exclaimed and rolled her eyes. She smiled coquettishly she took another bite of her torta.  

“Well, I assume you would have put it on your resume if you were. It’s…uh…quite a skill to have.” Sandor waggled his eyebrows at her and nudged her with his elbow.

“It’s my contingency plan if you end up being insufferable,” Sansa fired back through a round of giggles. “Thanks to you I have my stage name sorted out.”  

 

“Little bird?” Sandor chuckled. “That’s not a good stage name. You can do better than that.”

“Ginger!” Sansa declared excitedly. “Or Cherry!”

“Cherry,” Sandor repeated with another hearty laughter. “I like it. I’d come and see Cherry dance.” 

Sansa smiled at him and bit her bottom lip. Their laughed ebbed gradually, leaving them both staring at one another in the silent wake of their shared mirth. A bit of torta sauce had gathered at the corner of Sansa’s mouth and Sandor grabbed a napkin with one hand and cupped her cheek with the other.

“Come here, Cherry. You’re a mess.” In delicate dabs, he wiped the sauce from the corner of her mouth. “It’s a good look on you,” he said quietly.

“Oh, yeah?” Sansa questioned. “Who’s the liar now?”

Sansa’s eyes settled on his. She watched him as he softly ran the napkin across her bottom lip to the other side of her mouth. She must’ve known it was all a ruse – a shameless excuse to touch her like this – but said nothing to stop him.  

“I’m not just damaged goods.” With the quiet declaration, her lips brushed against his finger and parted.

“I know that,” Sandor mumbled. The hand holding the napkin fell to his lap. The other remained, still cupping her cheek and his thumb brushed softly against the side of her face.

“I’m strong,” she told him and her gaze flickered back and forth between his lips and his eyes.

“I never doubted that for a minute,” he murmured. Madness took hold and he wanted to kiss her. Sansa would have let him. Her breathing hitched and the want was quite evident, written on her face in wide eyes and her tongue running quickly over her bottom lip. She nodded her head. He could feel it against his palm and his fingertips smoothed gently against her hair.

“Sandor.” A familiar voice called out a few feet away from where he and Sansa were seated.  

Sandor and Sansa immediately parted, pulling away from one another in an instant. Sandor turned to find Bronn gaping at the two of them with sweat pouring down his temples and dampening the front of his running shirt. Bronn tugged at his ear buds and paused the timer on his watch.

“Bronn. Hey!” Sandor managed. He stood from the bench and Sansa followed suit. “This is Sansa. Sansa, this is my friend, Bronn.”

“Nice to meet you.” Sansa smiled at Bronn before averting her eyes to the ground in apparent mortification.

“Yeah, you too. What are you guys up to?” Bronn asked breathlessly.

“Just grabbing lunch on the way back to the office,” Sandor responded.

Silence followed. Bronn stared at Sansa who smiled nervously in turn. Sandor fumbled for words; anything to break the tension; an excuse to leave, an explanation, though, he quickly realized that would only make things morepainfully awkward.

“I can…um…go get the car started,” Sansa broke in and turned to Sandor.

“Yeah. Perfect.” Sandor dug into his pocket and handed Sansa the keys. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Nice to meet you, Bronn.” Sansa smiled politely and gave a small wave as headed in the direction of the car.

“You too, Sansa,” Bronn hollered after her as he stared dubiously at Sandor.  

Another heavy silence fell between Sandor and Bronn, even after Sansa was halfway to the car and well out of earshot. Bronn’s smile widened and his eyes pierced through Sandor, burning into his skin as Bronn awaited some kind of explanation.

“I know how that probably looked,” Sandor relented with a nervous laugh.

“It’s none of my business if you have a sidepiece or not,” Bronn replied casually with his hands held up in the air. “I’ve been there before.”

“She’s not a sidepiece, Bronn,” Sandor quickly corrected. “I would never cheat on Annalise.”

The last bit felt like a dirty lie. Sandor liked to think he was better than that; better than all the assholes he ran surveillance on who cheated on their partners. The truth, as always, was painted in shades of grey; never quite so simple as it should be.

“Well, speaking of Annalise, she texted me earlier today,” Bronn divulged. He crossed his arms about his chest and settled back on his heels.

“Why?” Sandor pressed.

“Said she wants to pick my brain about the fight you two had. She wanted to meet me for dinner tonight,” Bronn offered with a shrug, as perplexed as Sandor. “I haven’t responded yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I guess it never occurred to her to come to me about it,” Sandor seethed. “Now, she has to go through my best friend? Fucking bullshit. I’m getting sick of her shit, man.”

Sandor lifted a hand to his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t really want to get in the middle of it,” Bronn responded with a sudden seriousness. “I’ll just tell her I can’t, that I’m busy or something.”

“Yeah,” Sandor nodded mindlessly. “Hey, about this,” he motioned his head towards the empty bench next to him. “Could you-”

“I won’t tell her,” Bronn assured with a nod.

“Things with Annalise have been rocky lately,” Sandor continued. Although he never quite needed to explain himself with Bronn, he felt compelled now. “I just don’t want her getting ideas in her head about Sansa and I when there’s nothing going on there, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” Bronn agreed with a nod. His brow furrowed and he looked to Sandor through narrowed eyes. “I gotta be honest with you, Sandor. That didn’t look like nothing to me. You two looked like you were about to go at each other in the middle of the park.”

“I know.” With his hands settled on his hips, Sandor closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“Were you two about to do something you shouldn’t?” Bronn questioned slowly.

“No,” Sandor shook his head firmly before another sigh broke through his lips. He titled his head back towards the sky and ran both hands through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Bronn.”

“Look, there’s no shame in ending things with Annalise if you like Sansa and think something’s there.”

Bronn spoke truly and his logic was hard to argue with. Perhaps, ending things with Annalise was the best thing to do.

“I know. Things are just complicated right now,” Sandor conceded. “I think I need to maybe just quit while I’m ahead for the time being until I figure this all out. And she does too.”

“Well, if nothing else, you’ll have good material for our next bar chat,” Bronn chuckled and untangled his headphone wires. “I’ve got to get going. Let me know how things work out.”

“Yeah,” Sandor nodded vacantly before Bronn jogged away.

_The timing is wrong. That’s all it is,_ Sandor assured himself, but his stomach twisted at the thought. The logic felt flawed, merely a consolation to preemptively ease inevitable upset. He headed down the paved walkway towards his car parked in the distance. By the time he reached the Mustang, Sandor felt the reality of the situation settle in. He and Sansa both went home to other people and, regardless of how shitty both of their situations had become, getting involved with one another right now was hardly the answer to their problems.

Sandor slipped into the driver’s seat and fumbled with his seatbelt to avoid looking at Sansa. That’s when the reasoning fell apart and all his resolve went with it. She stared at him anyhow. In the periphery of his vision, he could see the way she was turned towards him, expecting something – a kiss that never came, an explanation, an ending to something that hadn’t even started.  

With the engine humming and a low murmur of the radio drifting through the speakers, Sandor looked to Sansa. He couldn’t speak for her and didn’t know what she made of their situation, but, to him, it felt real; more real than what he had with Annalise and that counted for something. But this was the part where things got messy; the part where hopes soared with the promise that everything could work out; the part where those hopes shattered to pieces and people got hurt. Sansa smiled weakly at him and bit her bottom lip to stop a flow of words, or so it seemed.

“I think we should get back to the office now,” Sandor asserted distantly as he stared out the windshield. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Nothing pressing was waiting for Sandor at the office. Sansa knew as well as him, but she nodded graciously and let the lie remain untouched.  

“Yeah,” she agreed and wrapped her arms across her middle. “Me too.”

Yet another lie, but Sandor let it stand. They’d end the day with a heap of more unspoken words between them – more obvious, more pressing, and more heart wrenching, too. But, try as they might to stop it, they were at the part where things got messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thank you for reading and for those who leave comments, kudos, or bookmark! All very much appreciated! 
> 
> This chapter and last chapter were much longer than I ever intended, but I had a lot of ground to cover leading up to the next handful of chapters, which I'm SO excited to get to. I've been waiting almost a whole year to get to this point in the story. 
> 
> To preempt some questions, yes, I know the story of Sandor's scars has been changed. I toyed with a few other routes and the one I settled on made the most sense for this story. Thanks in advance for your understanding. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed :) Stay tuned for more! I think I'll be able to pump the next chapter out fairly quickly. I'm a good ways into the next few updates. 
> 
> One last thing, please be advised this story is not beta'ed. Mistakes are my own. Hopefully, none are too glaring as to disrupt enjoyment of this work.


	6. Aqua

**Till Dawn (Here Comes The Sun)**

Aqua

* * *

 

Sansa stood outside her car parked in an unfamiliar neighborhood. _Wait for it. Stand still and just wait_

Months ago, she moved to this city after broadcasting her exuberant hopes to anyone who would listen. No one on earth could convince her that it was a mistake. People tried. They’d smile at her and she’d yammer on about how perfect it would all be, but sensed their cautionary reserve and matched it to the growing unease at the pit of her stomach. The day she moved into Joffrey’s apartment Sansa’s hopes came crashing down, leaving behind only the gut-wrenching feeling she had just made an enormous mistake.  

 _Wait for it. For that feeling,_ she told herself, wiser for all the missteps she’d made. Sansa spun slowly in place and peered with objective eyes at the new surroundings. The feeling never came and Sansa warmed to the idea of sanctuary here. 

Four-family flats lined the quiet street, no two buildings looking exactly alike, except for brick exteriors and art deco facades. She noted the little details of each building – the peculiar windows, glazed tile designs embedded in the brick, and front stoops boasting elaborate wrought-iron perimeters. 

This neighborhood – the Hill – was “little Italy” of the city. Italian delis and restaurants dotted the narrow intersections at the heart of the Hill. Green, white, and red stripes adorned every fire hydrant and the Italian flag hung from houses, lampposts, and awnings. Every block proudly displayed the colors of a shared heritage hidden in a forgotten part of the city.

The Hill didn’t offer hip restaurants, expensive bars, and swanky, over-priced lofts like her current neighborhood. Old-city charm was what the Hill had going for it and a persistent quaintness that Sansa found comforting. No more lonely nights in an empty space, pacing an apartment far-too large for her, and waiting for someone to come to her rescue. She’d rescue herself and make this place her home.

Sansa perched with her back against the car and her gaze drifted to the old trees rising high above the street. Dried leaves came alive on a chilly breeze, but left the trees bare. Spindly limbs reached towards a dismal sky painted in shades of grey. 

The cold penetrated through her black jacket and Sansa checked the time on her phone yet again. He still had three minutes to get here. Sansa staved off preemptive worry and reminded herself that Sandor loathed being late. He’d be here any second.

On that thought, she pulled a powder compact from her purse and flipped it open. The mirror magnified the circles beneath her eyes, the perspective odd and the dull afternoon light hitting her cheeks at a strange angle. She dusted powder over the perceived imperfection, but lighting and perspective weren’t the culprits. Sleep was hard won last night. She tossed and turned. The mattress suddenly formed lumps she hadn’t noticed before and the pillows hardened until her neck went stiff, but those weren’t the ultimate cause of a sleepless night.

She waged war with Joffrey all evening and into the early hours of morning. Their pot roast dinner went cold on the table. Sansa contemplated upending a bottle of Pinot Noir all over the white furniture and beige area rugs of their living room. Everything was white in their apartment – as dead and colorless as their relationship. Every night she dreamed in vivid Technicolor and every morning awoke to a pristine hell.

Sansa fought tooth and nail in honor of her dignity and the confession – that she was leaving him – loosened on the tip of her tongue. The confounding way she suddenly stood up for herself only ignited Joffrey’s temper further. He fumed until his face went red and Sansa surmised he knew what was coming. She stilled the confession, but not to spare his feelings. Joff was a loose cannon these days so she tucked the confession away for another time when it didn’t carry such burdensome and painful implications for her.  

At 1:04 in the morning, Sansa swallowed her pride and went to bed. She stewed in her anger a while before falling asleep. She woke to a pink sky on the horizon and tufts of heavy grey clouds blotting out an emergent sun. Joffrey was already gone by then or perhaps he’d left during the night. She didn’t know, didn’t care, and most certainly didn’t shed tears in his absence. Her fingertips swept gently across the white Egyptian cotton sheets and she grasped for her phone next to the pillow.

Sansa called Sandor on his cell phone and he picked up on the second ring. The rumble of his voice sent shivers through her body – a sensation that both soothed and thrilled her – and Sansa curled her legs tightly to her chest with an unexpected smile.

“Hey. I need to take a personal day,” she had divulged, half a question and half a statement. 

“Sure. No worries,” Sandor replied. Concern bled through his words and gentled his voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine. I just have some things I need to do,” Sansa lied on both accounts.  

Everything was not fine and there was nothing for her to do. No pressing appointments, no unforeseeable emergencies; just self-pity and a refusal to peel herself away from the bed she hated so thoroughly, but couldn’t break free from. “We’re still on for this afternoon right? The landlady is meeting me at the apartment at 4:30.”

“Yeah. Just text me the address and I’ll be there.” 

Sansa sat up and hugged a pillow against her middle. _I wish he were here,_ she thought with an ache emerging in her belly and erupting in her chest. She’d felt this before in the days she still cried over Joffrey; when his words and actions cut her so deep, sometimes she felt as though her broken heart would never beat again. The pain of wanting someone so terribly that it physically hurt – Sansa knew that pain well.    

“Okay. Have a good day,” she urged softly. “I’ll see you later.”

A tremendous sense of loss overcame her when she hung up the phone. The tears that streamed down her face weren’t for Joffrey, the desperateness of her situation, or the indelible need to be free of him. Beneath the sheets, with her faced pressed against the pillow, Sansa cried for all the “could-be’s” and “might’ve been’s” – the vision of blissful perfection held in such simple pleasures; stolen kisses, walking hand-in-hand, shared meals, movie dates, and a man who loved her so thoroughly she’d never forget and most certainly would never take for granted. She cried for these things and for the man she wanted. Those things – and that man – belonged to another woman and Sansa could only hope that Annalise knew what she had.

The crying stopped from sheer exhaustion alone. Despite swollen eyes and a stuffed nose, the self-pity dispersed and a peaceful fatigue enveloped her. Sansa pulled the covers over her head and dozed until noon. When she awoke again, the warmth beneath the sheets felt like a small bubble of heaven she didn’t want to part with.

 _What would your mother say?_ The thought intruded her newfound refuge.

_Get up. Get dressed in your favorite outfit. Curl your hair. Put on your best shade of lipstick. Do something that makes you feel like the world isn’t so insurmountable and things aren’t so impossible. And, for god’s sake, get yourself out of this mess._

Sansa kicked the covers from her face and shivered against the chill outside the blankets. Limbs stiff and heart still heavy, she climbed from bed and promptly headed for the shower. She donned her quintessential fall outfit – black tights, black skirt and grey sweater, black boots and a Kelly green scarf. She curled her hair and put on make-up. In the mirror, she looked something of herself again.

Music blared from her iPod and the triumphant beat saw her through an early afternoon awash in resigned melancholia. The dining room table still held the remnants of what Sansa hoped was the last supper for her and Joffrey. She let it stay there – the dinner rolls hard as rocks and the glasses of wine reeking like vinegar. The expected urge to wash the dishes and clean up the mess never manifested.

Sansa busied herself with another task. From the computer desk, she retrieved a small, moleskin notebook and planned her great escape to elaborate detail. She listed all the items she’d take with her when she left, all the things she couldn’t do without. That list covered a mere half-page and Sansa realized how little was left here. Nothing tethered her to this place anymore. On that thought, she left the loft with tendrils of excitement creeping in and daydreamed her way to the sleepy little neighborhood she found herself in now. 

Leaning against her car, Sansa’s daydreams continued – one long stream of thoughts that’d persisted since the day in the park when Sandor almost kissed her. _Was he going to kiss me? Would I have let him_

Sansa knew the answer to the latter question, but agonized over the former. The days since were exquisite torture and the stolen glances at work had swiftly taken on new meaning. Every time she entered his office and every time Sandor came to her desk, the heaviness teemed between them until Sansa was certain one of them would mention that day in the park and what happened – or rather, _almost_ happened – between them. Sandor abided by strict professionalism. In fact, he seemed to desperately cling to it and Sansa could see the harrowing dilemma playing out beneath his stiff smiles and lingering eyes.

From around the corner, a low grumble of a large engine drifted on the crisp air and Sansa’s heart nearly leapt into her throat. Her back straightened when Sandor’s black Mustang turned the corner and rolled to a stop behind her car. She pushed herself from her car and tucked her hair behind her ear. Her hands shook, but not nearly as much as her knees. She took a wobbly step forward as the engine of Sandor’s car shut off. Through the heavy tint of his windows, she could only see his silhouette moving within, situating his belongings on the passenger seat before pushing his door open.

Sandor emerged from the car and flashed Sansa a quick smile. He pushed his aviators onto the top of his head and shoved the keys into the pocket of his tapered grey pants. He wore a navy suit jacket with a white button-down shirt beneath. His hair was slicked back and gathered at the nape of his neck and his beard was closely trimmed against his sharp jawline.

 _God, he looks good,_ Sansa thought and realized she’d been staring, mouth hung open slightly and her breathing coming rapid enough that her chest heaved ever so slightly. A deep chuckle escaped Sandor’s lips as he approached her.

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” Sansa nodded and stared at the scuffed tips of her boots, embarrassed for staring and now afflicted with a sudden shyness.

“So is this it?” Sandor settled in by her side and graciously turned his attention to the building in front of them. Butterflies besieged her stomach when he spoke. Something about his voice – lush, deep, and undeniably masculine – bid her heart to beat faster. Sansa drew in a long breath and released it on a shaky sigh

“Yeah. This is it."

The building featured dark brick, a sizeable front porch, and, unlike the others on the street, a finished attic space as a third floor. The posting online revealed little of what the inside looked like, but the apartment was priced within her budget and the landlady, Sharon, seemed nice. 

“This is a good part of town,” Sandor said as if intuiting Sansa’s thoughts and offering his reassurances accordingly. He looked down at her and Sansa met his gaze this time with a smile. In the natural light, his eyes appeared a pale grey, almost piercing in color. Her hands and knees began to quake again.

“Are you nervous?” Sandor’s gaze remained on her and his lips curled into a smirk. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her and the obvious effect he was having. The gentle tone of his voice suggested not, but it wasn’t until Sandor motioned his head towards the building that Sansa breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

She was nervous, but it had nothing to do with the prospect of moving. The moleskin notepad secure at the bottom of her purse could speak to that. The near-constant daydreams of Sandor’s mouth warm against hers and his tongue parting her lips proliferated her nerves when he came around. If he only knew the thoughts she had about him and how he dominated her waking visions and nighttime dreams alike.

“No.” Sansa shook her head and scrutinized the depths of her core, the part of her that might bury a bad decision in naïve daydreams. “I’m excited,” she added truthfully. “I’m just ready to be in my own place where I can do all my embarrassing things in peace.

“And what are those things?" Sandor questioned curiously, one brow quirked in apparent interest.

“You know, all those things you do at home when no one else is around,” Sansa shrugged and felt a warm smile dance across her lips. “I can stand in the kitchen in my underwear and eat cool whip straight from the tub with a spoon. I can spend all Sunday in bed watching Netflix with an obscene amount of Chinese take-out. Or I can have a dance party to my embarrassing music playlist.”

“Embarrassing music playlist?” Sandor repeated with a dubious stare.

“Yes, that’s the music everyone has in their library, but they’d be embarrassed for other people to hear,” Sansa explained, but Sandor looked unconvinced. A smug grin graced his lips and both brows lifted at her.

“Oh come on!” Sansa laughed. “I _know_ you have embarrassing music in your library."                                                                               

“What’s on your embarrassing music playlist?” Sandor prodded and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He turned towards her and Sansa mimicked his movements, standing close to him and now finding the courage to look at him.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to tell me yours too.” The butterflies and nerves – only moments ago having paralyzed her with shy reserve – suddenly dispersed and Sansa relished the easy banter she and Sandor had established with one another.

“Deal,” Sandor nodded firmly.

Sansa lifted her eyes to the dismal sky and mentally scanned through her music collection. 

“Prince,” she started reluctantly. Sandor exhaled a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“You can do better than that,” he urged with feigned disappointment. 

“Wilson Phillips,” Sansa admitted, internally cringing at the thought of _Hold On_ inadvertently blaring from her speakers within earshot of Sandor.

“That’s mortifying,” Sandor deadpanned and shook his head.  

“Celine Dion. Phil Collins,” Sansa added for good measure, truly the most embarrassing artists lurking within the annals of her music collection. 

“Oh! Ouch!” Sandor erupted into laughter. “I can’t believe you just admitted that. Should’ve quit with Wilson Phillips, little bird.”

“It’s your turn!” With the heel of her hand, Sansa nudged Sandor against his bicep and edged closer to him. He smiled at her touch, though, appeared a bit surprised.

“Um…let’s see…” Sandor uncrossed his arms and settled his hands on his hips. He stared at the ground in thought, chewing on his lip. “TuPac.”

“Everyone has TuPac. And he’s not that embarrassing,” Sansa chided.

“Bone Thugs N Harmony,” Sandor added. His fingers smoothed through his beard and his gaze flickered up and down Sansa’s body, admiring her in quick glances that inspired a rush of heat to radiate through her. 

“Wait, are you a secret G, Sandor?” Sansa teased with a broad smile.

“No, I’m not a secret G.” Sandor rolled his eyes with a huff. “It’s mostly when I work out. It gets me going,” he explained. 

Sansa nodded vacantly and recalled the time a few weeks ago when Sandor changed into his workout clothes at the office. He had emerged from the back hallway wearing a thin, black AC/DC shirt cut off at the sleeves and exposing his sides. Shamelessly, Sansa stared at him. She didn’t care if he noticed. Wasn’t that the point, to be noticed? She stammered something about his tattoos – mindlessly asking him about them. They expanded the length of his arms and were scrawled across each side of his ribcage, extending to his back as well. To this day, she couldn’t remember exactly what he said about his tattoos because she’d been admiring just how muscled he was – how every bit of him was sculpted to perfection.

Sandor had left the office that day with a satisfied smile he could barely contain – one of apparent vindication that he wasn’t the only one launching lustful gazes across the room without shame or second-thoughts. They were both rather guilty on that front and now equally unconcerned with the other noticing.

Silence overtook their conversation now as Sandor stared expectantly at Sansa and she gazed back, lost in another daydream.

“Alright. One more,” she cajoled. “The most embarrassing.” 

Sandor rubbed the back of his neck with a rugged laugh and a reluctant sigh followed.

“There _might_ be some Sheryl Crow on my iPod,” he quietly confessed and measured Sansa’s reaction.

Her eyes widened and her hand flew to cover her mouth to disguise the exuberant smile.

“Wow! Really?” she gasped.

“It’s left over from when I went through a break up a few years ago,” he quickly clarified. “It’s good break up music,” he added, but he wasn’t laughing along with her anymore. The conversation ended abruptly here despite the growing sense that Sandor had much more to say on the topic of break ups. Sansa smiled gently at him, a gesture he reciprocated.

“So how are things with you and Annalise?” she asked, but the transition felt awkward and ill timed.

Sandor stiffened, his back straightening as he sucked in a sharp breath and grimaced. 

“We’re working through it,” he stated, the answer immediate. He cast his eyes towards the apartment building and offered no more on the matter. _Just as well,_ Sansa thought. She didn’t want to hear anymore about Annalise.

The sudden sound of squealing tires pierced the thin air. A silver SUV turned the corner and zoomed down the street. When it abruptly pulled to the curb, Sandor’s arm shot out in front of Sansa and he quickly pushed her behind him.

A few moments later, the landlady hustled from the SUV, muttering apologies as she hurried towards them. Sansa had only talked to this woman twice on the phone. Each time the lady carried on about insignificant details and Sansa politely listened. Sharon held the idealized visage of a grandmother – white hair, an easy smile, and a knit sweater with embroidered fall leaves outlined in sequins and beads. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Sharon apologized once more and extended a small, bony hand to Sansa. “So nice to meet you, dear.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Sansa replied warmly, but Sharon was already preoccupied with Sandor.

“Oh my goodness! Who is this?” she cooed and pawed at him with aged-spotted hands adorned with gaudy jeweled rings.

“This is Sandor,” Sansa introduced with a devilish smile in his direction. Sandor shook Sharon’s hand, but hardly hid his discomfort.

“Well, aren’t you two something,” Sharon commented before shuffling towards the building. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time, but you’ll get an idea of what the unit looks like. It’s the smallest in this building, but the layout is darling!”

Sharon fumbled with her key ring before opening the front door, which led into the main stairwell of the building. Sansa and Sandor followed the old woman as she made her way up the stairs, faintly wheezing with each labored step she took.

“My husband and I own five other buildings in the area,” Sharon explained along the way. “Another girl is looking at this unit tomorrow, but I think I like you better, Sansa. You seem sweeter and quieter, too.”

Sandor stared at Sansa with a suppressed smile and waggled his eyebrows at her. Sansa shook her head at him with a grave expression of seriousness, but a giggle escaped her lips and echoed through the cavernous stairwell.

On the top floor, Sharon led the way to a heavy wooden door adorned with a brass number three. Once more, she thumbed through the keys before finding the right one and unlocked the door. 

“Alright, have a look,” Sharon urged and pushed the door open, allowing Sansa through first.

In a narrow hallway, the air smelled musty and the apartment seemed to have soaked up the chill from outside. Dull hardwood floors creaked beneath her feet and extended towards an open space with one large window overlooking the street below. Sansa ducked into the kitchen off the hall and stood at the center of the room half the size of her current kitchen. Black and white-checkered floors contrasted the bright aqua paint on the walls. Sharon bumbled along towards the open area at the end of the hall while Sandor followed Sansa into the kitchen. Black granite countertops and white cabinets made up one side of the room with a small fridge and oven on an adjacent wall. 

Sandor only briefly glanced over the kitchen. Sansa watched him visibly reel at the paint color. His head reared back and he mumbled an almost indiscernible “whoa". 

“Interesting color,” he commented. He stood next to Sansa and they both stared at the empty wall as if viewing some abstract painting at a museum. Sandor lifted one hand beneath his chin and Sansa cocked her head slightly to the side. 

“I kind of like it,” she decided. “It’s not a color I would normally pick.”

She’d take any color over the many variations of white Joffrey had uncovered – eggshell, meringue, bone, pearl. He insisted they were all different and proceeded to paint every room in their apartment a different shade of white, even though they all looked exactly the same.  

“That’s all that matters then,” Sandor assured her with a smile. He headed across the hallway to the bathroom and Sansa followed after. He abruptly stopped in the doorway and Sansa ran headlong into him. He turned around and gave her a pointed look. 

“What is it?” she asked.

Sandor stepped aside to let her through and Sansa, much like him, stopped dead in her tracks. If the kitchen was tacky, the bathroom surely made up for it in spades. A claw-foot tub was settled on the far side of the room in front of a large frosted glass window with a deep marble ledge.

Mint green tiles covered the walls halfway up from the floor where they ended in a perimeter of thin, black tiles. The rest of the walls were painted in an even lighter shade of green and the floors were covered in the same marble as the window ledge. Across from the tub, a porcelain pedestal sink rested against the other wall, above which hung an elaborate gold-framed mirror. Sansa’s hands covered her heart and she gasped, spinning towards Sandor who seemed to have been watching her the whole time.

“I thought you might have that reaction,” he chuckled. 

“Wow,” Sansa breathed. “I’ve been waiting for a proper bathtub.”

Sharon meandered her way back down the hall and poked her head into the bathroom. 

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she sighed and similarly marveled at the space with apparent pride. 

“How new is the plumbing?” Sandor asked, interrupting Sansa’s musings of all the candle-lit bubble baths she’d take in here. 

“The plumbing in this building was completely replaced two years ago,” Sharon replied with just as much pride and headed back towards the hall. Sandor and Sansa followed her into the open space of the living room. 

“And the electric?” Sandor pressed further and turned his attention to the old light fixtures at the ceiling.   

“The electric was redone by the previous owner five years ago,” Sharon informed and continued to blather on about the wiring of the building. Sandor listened in rapt, one hand tucked under his chin and his other arm crossed about his chest.   

Sharon and Sandor’s conversation droned on in the background as Sansa walked towards a spiral staircase situated in the corner of the room. From the opening above, light spilled through and she could see the walls upstairs possessed the same aqua shade as the kitchen. 

“Okay, what about the HVAC?” she heard Sandor continue as he inspected the air vents at the baseboards. 

“He misses nothing!” Sharon exclaimed and nudged Sansa who yelped in surprise. “The HVAC system is up-to-date. That was replaced last year. Next year we’re updating the roof. I’ve got a list in my car of everything that’s been redone here and everything I’ve kept original to the building. Let me go fetch it."

Before Sansa or Sandor could respond, Sharon hurried towards the front door as fast as her old legs would carry her. The door shut behind her and Sandor turned to Sansa. 

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I love it!” Sansa’s lips erupted into a smile and she gazed up at Sandor. “I really think this is it. This is where I want to live. Did you see the bathroom?” she squealed and bounced in place. 

“It’s very _you_.” Sandor flashed her a smile over his shoulder as he walked towards a closet door in the corner of the room. He tugged on the knob, which fell from the door and crashed against the floor.

“Oh my god! Put it back before she sees!” Sansa urged with a laugh and dashed towards him, trying in earnest to pry the doorknob from his hand. 

“Who cares? It’s a parting gift.” Sandor shoved the doorknob into his pocket and swiveled away from Sansa as she grabbed for it, giggling uncontrollably as he dodged her efforts. Sansa managed to shove her hand halfway into his pocket and her fingertips groped for the knob.

“Woah!” Sandor exclaimed. “Watch the hands,” he scolded, but grinned like a mad man and his laughter echoed through the empty living room.

“You watch the hands!” Sansa countered and shoved her hand further into his pocket to dig the doorknob out.

“Oh trust me, I am!” Sandor fired back and gently encircled her wrist, but he made no effort to pull her hand from his pocket.

Behind them, Sharon’s footsteps creaked against the hardwood and the old woman loudly cleared her throat. Sansa immediately pulled her hand from Sandor’s pocket and took one large step away from him.

“Well, have you looked at the upstairs?” she asked and shot them both a cutting stare.

“No, not yet,” Sansa spoke quietly and felt her cheeks burn hot. She carefully climbed the narrow stairs that spiraled towards the finished attic space above, which functioned as a bedroom. The room was small to begin with, but the angled ceilings made it seem even more cramped. Sansa bit her bottom lip and surveyed the space.

“Hmm. I think I could fit a bed and a small dresser in here. Maybe a small nightstand, but that might be pushing it,” she pondered out loud and turned to Sandor to solicit his thoughts. He stood near the corner; his shoulders forced in a hunched position and crouched within the small space that couldn’t fully accommodate his height.

“This looks like a dollhouse with you in it,” Sansa commented with an amused laugh.

“Yeah, it’s a little cramped,” Sandor agreed with a subtle nod.

A quiet moment passed between them as Sansa stared at Sandor in what might ultimately become her bedroom. She envisioned him here again and imagined he wouldn’t need to crouch if he were in her bed. He’d fit just fine for all the things she fantasized about – all the ways he’d make her feel good and all the ways she’d gladly return the favor a few times over. After all, she was a good girl.

The thoughts left her flustered and her chest faintly heaving with each subtly panting breath that escaped her lips. Sandor watched her through darkened eyes and the corner of his mouth lifted gently in a knowing smile, as if he understood exactly what she was thinking because he was thinking it too.

“We should go back downstairs,” Sansa suggested and the heat that’d burned against her cheeks now spread down her chest and between her legs. Sansa climbed back down the stairs and Sandor followed after. Sharon waited for them at the bottom of the steps. 

“I know it’s small, but you two will manage, I have no doubts.” Sharon smiled broadly at Sandor and winked at Sansa. 

“Oh.” Sansa’s mouth curled into the shape of the sound that left her lips. Her eyes widened and flickered to Sandor who appeared to thoroughly enjoy this sudden predicament and her embarrassment. “No, he’s not…we’re not…he’s my boss,” Sansa quickly corrected, fumbling nervously over her words. 

Sharon lifted her eyebrows at Sansa and nodded slowly as if to say, _“I bet he is, honey.”_ The old woman fluttered towards the door before Sansa could say another word or set the record straight. 

“I have an appointment I need to hurry off to,” she asserted and hurried from the apartment. Sansa and Sandor followed her from back down the main stairwell and outside where they gathered on the sidewalk.

“So what do you think?” Sharon asked.   

“I love it,” Sansa gushed near breathless. “I think this is the one.” 

“Great!” Sharon beamed. “I’ll send the lease agreement and we’ll figure out a move-in date. I’ve got to run. Sandor, it was nice to meet you!” she hollered and climbed into her car. Sansa silently watched as Sharon pulled away from the curb, cutting off another car coming down the street and speeding away like a bat out of hell.

“I did it!” Sansa turned to Sandor and jumped up and down in place, giggling as the sound of Sharon’s screeching tires faded in the distance. “I’m getting my own place!”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sandor’s lips broke into a broad smile. _I love it when he smiles._ Sansa ceased her bouncing on the thought and slowly walked with Sandor towards their cars.

“Did you like it?” Sansa asked.

“Yeah, minus the aqua walls,” Sandor shrugged and pulled his car keys from his pocket along with the doorknob. “Congratulations, little bird. I’m really happy for you,” he offered sincerely and handed Sansa the metal knob. She held it in her palms and smiled up at him.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said softly. 

“Anytime.” Sandor too had dropped his voice to a quiet murmur. Sansa didn’t know why they were speaking so gently to one another or why they held each other’s stares now as if there were something else they both wanted to say.

These moments increasingly infiltrated Sansa’s daydreams; the moments where a growing affection seemed to be taking root, a foundation on which all the rampant and palpable tension soared to new heights.

“I’ve heard so much about the Italian food down here so I’m going to get dinner at one of the restaurants down the street, Zia’s,” Sansa offered shyly and tucked the doorknob into her purse. “Would you want to join me?” 

_Please say yes._

Shifting in place, Sandor drew in a breath and his smile faded, leaving behind a somber countenance. Sansa could see the regret even before he spoke and her heart plummeted to the depths her stomach. 

“Oh. Well, actually, Annalise is meeting me down here to get dinner,” Sandor revealed slowly, as if it pained him to break the news. “Believe it or not, we had planned on going to Zia’s too.” 

“Oh, okay. Right. Well, yeah. Maybe…maybe just another time.” Sansa worked to hide her disappointment and forced the smile that graced her lips. 

“Why don’t you join us?” Sandor asked.

“No, it’s fine!” Sansa immediately shook her head. “I don’t want to interrupt you two and-“ 

“Sansa,” Sandor broke in, speaking her name plainly with a small smile. “It’s going to be more awkward if you’re eating alone at the same restaurant as us.” 

Sansa contemplated his offer. She already had her heart set on Italian food tonight and supposed he was right about the awkwardness. 

“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly and shrugged her shoulders. Her gut told her no, pleaded with her to dig deep and find a spectacular excuse. “Yeah,” she nodded, blaming it on the curiosity of meeting Annalise and her craving for something slathered in marinara sauce. Sandor was her friend and Annalise was part of his life, whether she liked it or not. Sooner or later, she’d have to meet the woman.

“Perfect. Well, just follow me. The restaurant is a few blocks away. 

Sandor seemed pleased with his solution and blithely unaware of the potential that this dinner might be awkward regardless of where Sansa was sitting in the restaurant – alone or with him and his girlfriend. She said nothing, but smiled sweetly at him before returning to her car. She followed his mustang the three blocks towards the restaurant and parked behind his car.

They walked together the three-quarters block towards the restaurant and Sansa battled the urge to formulate a last-minute excuse the entire way. Sandor would see through it immediately. He’d insist and she’d feel bad declining. _Just get this over with. At least there will be wine._

The brick building housing the restaurant was much like the rest of the Hill – bedecked in colors of the Italian flag and bustling with patrons all vying for a table. Sandor opened the door for Sansa and she stepped into the small vestibule of the dimly lit restaurant.

A petite woman – half a head shorter than Sansa, at least – stood alone against the wall. She stared at her phone and tapped her thumb against the screen. The woman offered Sansa a quick glance, long enough that her eyes flickered up and down Sansa’s frame, and then turned her attention back to her phone until Sandor stepped through the door. 

“Hey babe, I was just texting you,” the woman, Annalise, said. Sansa remembered Annalise’s gravely tone and the envious way she spoke on a sultry voice. Oblivious to Sansa, Annalise smiled at Sandor and stepped towards him, rolling up on her toes and pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“I got us a table...” Her voice waned and she stared at Sansa, puzzled by the way Sansa remained rooted where she was in an uncomfortable proximity. A nervous smile formed on Sansa’s lips and she looked pleadingly at Sandor. 

“This is Sansa,” he told Annalise and gently rested his hand against Sansa’s back. “I invited her to join us for dinner.”

In real time, Sansa watched recognition bloom across Annalise’s face along with something else; something beyond nominal familiarity and the natural interest that comes with putting a name to a face.

“Oh. Sansa. Yeah.” Annalise cut an irritated glance in Sandor’s direction. It only lasted a moment, but Sansa could read the displeasure on Annalise’s face and the sudden realization – that he had grossly miscalculated this situation – on Sandor’s.

“Wow. Okay, hi,” Annalise continued absentmindedly. Her focus remained on Sansa and a requisite exchange of sizing one another up proceeded, though, Sansa felt it was all rather ridiculous.

Annalise scrutinized Sansa with a heavy, unabashed stare that started at her boots and landed squarely on Sansa’s face. Annalise’s dark brown eyes were unreadable; not hostile per se, but plain, much like the rest of her. She wore no make-up and the wavy length of thick brown hair cascaded around her shoulders in a blunt cut that did no favors for the roundness of her face.

Annalise was what Arya would call “2am pretty.” In the smoky haze of a no-name bar and an impending last call, Annalise probably held a fair bit of easygoing charm, enough for drunken stragglers and lonely souls to take her home. She dominated the space around her despite her petite frame and didn’t offer smiles for free. She certainly didn’t smile at Sansa as first introductions would require; awkward though this one was, the woman could’ve at least made an effort. Instead, the burden was solely on Sansa to shake Annalise’s hand and offer saccharine niceties about how lovely it was to meet her.

“Hi, it’s great to finally meet you. If I’m imposing, please let me know.” Sansa offered her hand to Annalise politely and her cheeks ached with the stiff smile still plastered to her lips.

“Sansa, it’s fine, really,” Sandor reassured on behalf of both himself and his girlfriend. Annalise grimaced and stepped closer to Sandor, wrapping her hand around his palm and pressing her shoulder against his arm.

In the depravity of jealousy, Sansa noted how Annalise appeared mismatched to Sandor; neither his compliment nor his equal. Sandor carried a certain presence about him – self-assured with an unspoken confidence. Annalise seemed intent on matching him in this, but rather oddly misconstrued Sandor’s effortless strength and pushed back with stubborn willfulness that even Sansa knew Sandor had no patience for. She could see now how this woman ravaged his dishes and demanded he reward her with an invitation to move in.

The hostess retrieved them just in time. The quiet glances circulating between all three of them fed into a growing uneasiness. Annalise followed the hostess and Sansa lagged behind with Sandor even further behind her. Sansa settled herself at the table across from Annalise and Sandor sat between the two of them. Annalise’s intent stare felt heavy against Sansa’s skin as she busied herself with slowly shucking out of her jacket and removing her scarf.

A middle-aged waiter in pressed black pants and white shirt fluttered over to their table with three menus in hand. 

“Good evening, sir and ladies,” he greeted and handed out the menus. His eyes swept curiously between Sansa and Annalise. “Can I start you off with a glass of wine or perhaps a cocktail?”

“Baby,” Annalise cooed and rested her hand on Sandor’s forearm. “What was that wine you wanted to try?”

“Ah, shit,” Sandor’s head lolled back as he narrowed his eyes at the ceiling in thought. “I can’t remember,” he shook his head.

“The Valpolicella?” Sansa offered. Weeks ago, she’d told him about her study abroad trip to Italy and raved about the Valpolicella when Sandor divulged his love of spicy red wines.

“That’s it!” Sandor snapped his fingers and grinned at Sansa. “You were the one who told me about it. We’ll have a bottle of that,” Sandor told the waiter who nodded and left the table.

Annalise’s lips rose in a half-hearted smile and she removed her hand from Sandor’s arm. To be fair, Sansa supposed the woman had pretty lips, plush and soft, but she seemed to scowl quite a bit.

Sandor draped his arm across the back of Annalise’s chair. His fingers brushed through the ends of her hair, twirling gently around his fingers before untwirling. They twirled and untwirled, again and again, with tenderness that Sansa could scarcely remember Joffrey ever showing her. 

“How was your day?” he asked with interest and obvious affection. Sansa felt another swelling of envy bubbling up from within.

“It was a day,” Annalise answered curtly. She wriggled her shoulders until Sandor loosened his fingers from her hair and pulled his arm away. “I hate when you do that,” she complained on a hushed voice. 

The waiter appeared with the bottle of wine and three glasses, which he set in front of each of them. Sandor reached for the bottle and began pouring Sansa’s glass first. Her eyes flickered to Annalise who stared back at her momentarily before turning her attention to Sandor. He moved to Annalise’s glass next, but he didn’t meet her insistent gaze. He seemed aware of his girlfriend’s searing stare. His jaw tightened visibly and his shoulder’s tensed.

“So, Sansa, this was a fun coincidence,” Annalise declared with a not-so-subtle hint of sarcasm. “Were you in the area?” Bringing her wine glass to her lips, Annalise took a sip and stared at Sansa over her glass.

“Well, there’s an apartment down the street that I looked at. Sandor came with me, which was great because he asked a lot of questions I would have never thought to. 

Sansa answered the question with measured calm and turned an appreciative smile to Sandor. Annalise also turned to him, but with a visage of growing annoyance.

Sandor looked at neither one of them. He preoccupied himself with swirling his wine glass in small circles and watching the liquid slosh against the sides. 

 _He didn’t tell her about coming with me to the apartment,_ Sansa suddenly realized and tried to puzzle out why it mattered. If Annalise was truly as sensible as Sandor claimed, then she shouldn’t be the type susceptible to frivolous bouts of jealousy. Yet, a surmounting hostility sprouted up between Annalise and Sandor, thick enough Sansa could feel it and now felt somehow entangled in it as well.

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Annalise snipped on a short, venomous tone. 

“Yup,” Sandor grumbled and took one large gulp of his wine.

Sansa brought her own wine to her lips with an eager pull, drinking faster than she normally would. The waiter approached their table once more and clasped his hands together.

“Are you interested in any appetizers this evening?” he asked cheerfully. 

“Calamari,” Annalise replied, forceful and immediate. 

Sandor’s jaw clenched again and turned slowly to stare at Annalise.

“Sansa doesn’t eat sea food,” he informed simply.

“Oh, no that’s-” Sansa tried to diffuse the situation. She’d rather suffer through calamari than be the source that ignited an all-out battle between Sandor and his girlfriend. Annalise cut her off, speaking louder and matching Sandor’s glare with just as much irritation.

“Well, I do,” Annalise snapped. “Calamari,” she repeated to the poor waiter who still held a patient albeit uncomfortable smile.

“Bruschetta, too,” Sandor added and snatched up his wine glass. Sansa bit her lip to fight an emergent smile. He knew she loved bruschetta. She talked about food all the time, especially the food she had in Italy. Sandor glanced at Sansa and the features of his face softened, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly in what Sansa could only call sympathy, as if he wanted desperately to apologize to her.

“So this place you looked at, did you like it?” Annalise asked with a bored sigh.

“I loved it,” Sansa beamed. “It was adorable. The landlady seems really nice too.” 

Annalise’s brows lifted and she turned to Sandor. 

“And what did you think of it?” she inquired with just as much disinterest.

Sandor settled back in his seat and the tension in his shoulders seemed to disperse, but he nevertheless swirled his glass against the table again, a nervous gesture of sorts.

“The walls were a little out there,” he shrugged and flashed Sansa a smile.

“They were not!” Sansa laughed in return. The sudden levity between her and Sandor expelled much of the tension and Sansa settled back in her seat as well.

“Yes, they were,” he insisted playfully. “I saw your face when we walked in the kitchen.”

“At least, I didn’t break the closet door,” Sansa countered. She bit her bottom lip, happy now that perhaps the dinner would settle into a cadence of laughter and easy conversation.

“That thing was long broken before I got there, little bird,” Sandor chuckled and took a slow sip of his wine. His eyes remained on Sansa and a soft smile stayed on his lips, perhaps longer than it should have.

Sansa became suddenly aware of Annalise once more. The woman stirred in her seat, cheeks blazing red and Sansa’s nickname – little bird – rousing much of her sudden aggravation.

“It was really funny,” Sansa giggled and turned to Annalise. “He opened the closet door and the handle came right off!” Sansa animatedly mimicked the motion with another wave of laughter. “And then he tried to put the handle in his pocket. And then I tried to get into his pocket!" 

Annalise’s cheeks burned an even deeper shade of red and her scowl returned with a vengeance, but now her glower rested solely on Sansa. 

“And…I guess maybe it’s funnier in my head,” Sansa faltered and took a long sip of ice water.

“Yeah, I probably needed to be there.” Annalise replied tepidly and steadied her eyes on Sansa before flipping through the pages of her menu.

Sansa did the same and the silence that followed provided a reprieve from forced conversation. She found the first appealing item on the menu and decided on it. Sipping her wine, Sansa turned her attention to the restaurant, now full with the dinner crowd. Couples occupied nearly every table and, with growing discomfort, Sansa realized this was one of those quintessential romantic joints populated by people celebrating anniversaries or birthdays.

Only now did she bother to notice the cut red roses and candlelight adorning the center of the table and suddenly felt like an intruder, a third wheel of the worst kind. With a few more heavy sips, she emptied her wine glass and set it back to the table.

“What are you getting?” she asked Sandor when she noticed him staring curiously at her empty glass.

He hummed deeply and his eyes flickered over the menu once more. Sansa watched him chew his bottom lip and run his fingers across his beard before cupping his chin. Now was certainly not the time to be enticed by any of this, but, emboldened by the wine, she couldn’t stop staring at him. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on interlaced fingers.

“I think the chicken cacciatore,” he declared, closed his menu, and tossed it on the table in front of him.

“No, you’re not,” Sansa laughed and swayed slightly in her seat with a pleasured buzz.

“Yes, I am.” A rough laugh escaped his lips, which then curled into a half-grin. He sipped slowly on his wine and lifted his brows at her. 

“That’s what I’m getting!” Sansa hollered a bit louder than intended. Her head swam and she teetered closer to the edge of her chair towards Sandor.

“Every time.” Sandor shook his head and exhaled another laugh.

“We always end up getting the same thing,” Sansa told Annalise who looked thoroughly fed-up with all the inside talk going on in front of her. “Just on accident. Not even on purpose!”

Annalise flipped her menu shut and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She swiveled towards Sandor.

“Always, huh?” she grilled and snatched up her wine glass. She settled back in her seat and awaited an explanation from him.

“Just when we order food in to the office or grab a quick lunch,” Sandor spoke brusquely, none too pleased by the turn the conversation had taken. With a pang of guilt, Sansa scrambled to ease the burden of explanation.

“Oh. Yeah, not always,” she added. Annalise’s gaze snapped in Sansa’s direction. “Just…you know.” Sansa quit while she was ahead and frantically searched for another topic to discuss. “Wow. That wine is really good. I loved every second of it,” she blurted out.

“You want some more?” Sandor leaned forward and retrieved the bottle.

“No. I think I should maybe slow down,” Sansa declined and covered her wine glass with her hand.

“There’s plenty left,” Sandor urged.

“No, I’m good,” Sansa reiterated with a shake of her head. Her temples throbbed, the promise of a wine headache well on its way.  

“She says she’s good. Just leave it alone,” Annalise huffed.

“Thank you, though,” Sansa gently added to soften the bitterness of Annalise’s words and to curb the souring mood that encompassed the table.

“I’ll have some more,” Annalise requested and lifted her empty glass towards Sandor.

“Help yourself,” he grumbled and returned the bottle to its place. Annalise snatched it up and upended it over her wine glass, filling the glass to the brim and slamming the empty bottle back to the table.

A moment later the waiter appeared with their appetizers and took their food orders. Sandor ordered a whisky on the rocks, which rewarded him with another cutting glance from Annalise. Sansa requested more water and the three of them were left in another cumbersome silence.

“Your nickname –little bird– where’d that come from?” Annalise suddenly asked, but not for curiosity. The probing question launched across the table felt like a trap.

“I don’t remember now,” Sansa answered and turned to Sandor. “Where did it come from?"

“Oh, so this is your nickname for her?” Annalise reeled back in her seat and stared intently at Sandor.

“It appears that way,” he mumbled in return. Sandor took of a sip of his whisky and let it swirl against his tongue before he swallowed hard.

“Interesting. Do tell.” Annalise demanded and nibbled on a piece of calamari. She cruelly seemed to enjoy Sandor’s displeasure, the way he tensed and closed his eyes, not wanting a fight, but appearing dragged into it anyway.

“Annalise, I honestly don’t remember.” The calmness he instilled into his voice was labored, wavering on the precipice of losing it altogether. “I think I just called her it one day and the nickname stuck.”

Sansa preoccupied herself with the bruschetta in a wayward hope that it would help soak up the alcohol rumbling in her belly. Sandor seemed to favor his whisky over food and Annalise gulped down wine until her lips were stained purple.

“So, Sandor says you teach high school math,” Sansa began to disperse the silence. “I think that’s amazing and super impressive,” she complimented sincerely. “I’m awful at math.”

Annalise cracked a wry smile and stared across the table at Sansa.

“It’s not that impressive. It’s simple really,” Annalise shrugged and matched Sansa’s eyes. “Besides, no one should be awful at math, especially not someone who fulfills accounting responsibilities as part of their job description.”

“Her accounting is just fine. I would know.” Sandor growled and slammed his whisky glass to the table. 

Sansa’s cheeks flushed with heat and she wanted to disappear beneath the table or, better yet, get up and leave altogether.

“I’m sure you would, darling,” Annalise quipped sarcastically and smiled insincerely at Sandor. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Dealing with teenagers all day is a bit of a drain,” she relented, but didn’t bother to look at Sansa when she mumbled her apology.

“I can imagine,” Sansa replied with as much grace as she could muster.

When the food came, Sansa’s appetite had already long departed. She picked at her chicken cacciatore, taking only small bites, which she chewed slowly. Sandor hardly touched his food as well and appeared listless in the confines of his own mind.

“So you have a boyfriend?” Annalise asked Sansa between mouthfuls. Sansa nodded in response. “What’s he like?” Annalise pressed further.

Sansa stiffened and cleared her throat. She mentally scanned through old memories of her and Joff, searching in earnest for all the things she used to see in him that were lost to her now.

“Well, um…successful I guess,” she began, but the statement sounded more like a question, as though she wasn’t so certain. “Handsome.” Objectively, yes, Joffrey was very handsome, though, he had grown unattractive in her eyes as of late.

“Successful and handsome?” Annalise scoffed. “That’s all you can say about the guy?"

Sansa felt her heart sink and a lump form in her throat. _I don’t want to play this game anymore,_ she thought despondently. There was only so long she could play nice and only so many fake smiles she could endure.

“I…I don’t know,” Sansa whispered and stabbed at the penne noodles on her plate with her fork, stacking them up on the tines even though she had no plans on eating it. 

“Drop it,” she heard Sandor tell Annalise. His voice was a quiet rumble, but no less insistent.

“I’m just making small talk,” Annalise retorted. “So you must be breaking up with him if you’re moving into your own place, yeah?”

Sansa bit her bottom lip, refusing to answer the question that now felt needlessly invasive. Sandor’s chest heaved and his hand tightened around his whisky glass.

“Annalise, I said drop it,” he reiterated, louder this time.  

“I really wish you’d eat,” she chided in response. “Your food is getting cold.”

With his elbows propped against the table, Sandor pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“And I wish you’d mind your own goddamn business,” he muttered, loud enough that Annalise and Sansa both heard.

Annalise gripped her fork and cast a furious glare in his direction. She rolled her eyes and looked at Sansa.

“I don’t know how you deal with him all day,” she seethed. “I don’t know how anyone does, myself included,” she added spitefully.

Sansa felt her fingers curl towards her palm in her own fed-up anger.

“I actually really like working for Sandor,” she asserted and locked eyes with Annalise. “He’s a fantastic boss and friend. We work really well together."

“I bet you do, little bird.” Sansa’s nickname hissed from the woman’s lips with heavy vitriol.

“That’s enough,” Sandor barked at Annalise with a flaring temper. He downed the contents of his whisky glass and slammed it on the table before throwing his napkin onto the plate of barely-touched food.

“You’ve finally managed to find a secretary who has a soft spot for you,” Annalise antagonized further. “That’s wonderful, babe. Just fantastic.”

Before Sandor could respond, the waiter warily approached the table.

“How would you like the check divided up?” he asked Sandor tentatively before his eyes flickered between Sansa and Annalise.

“Just put it all on this.” Digging into his back pocket, Sandor retrieved his wallet and handed over his credit card.

“Of course,” the waiter murmured and promptly left the table.

“Here, I’ve got cash.” Sansa pulled her purse onto her lap and dug around its depths for her wallet.

“Keep your money. It’s on me,” Sandor insisted.

“Thank you,” she breathed gratefully with a smile. “I’ll bring coffee and bagels in the morning.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Sandor sighed and rose from his seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back,” he added and headed towards the bathrooms on the other side of the restaurant.

In Sandor’s absence, Sansa felt Annalise’s gaze sinking into her skin once more – a persistent weight scrutinizing every detail. Sansa crossed her arms over the top of her purse and lifted her eyes to Annalise.

“I really love your necklace,” she offered because there was nothing else to say. The delicate gold necklace with a pale pink pendant was, in fact, very pretty, but Sansa’s words sounded insincere, even to her own ears.

“Okay, look,” Annalise began and pressed her palms to the table. “I’m just going to level with you because this has been the most awkward evening that I can personally remember.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry,” Sansa shook her head and softly closed her eyes. She drew in a deep breath before opening them again. “I shouldn’t have come. I just mentioned I was coming to dinner here and Sandor insisted that I join you two.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Annalise grumbled with a derisive laugh.

“What?” Sansa asked softly, brow furrowing in confusion.

Annalise sighed and, for the first time in the evening, seemed to drop her defenses. The hostility she regarded Sansa with melted away and Sansa saw the woman for what she was: nice enough, pretty enough, smart enough. Sandor wasn’t wrong about Annalise and Sansa tried in earnest to imagine herself in the woman’s shoes – at dinner with her boyfriend’s secretary who couldn’t hide her feelings if her life depended on it.

“This is uncomfortable and really embarrassing.” Annalise shook her head and took one, long sip of her wine before continuing. “I have to ask because if I don’t, I’m just going to drive myself crazy. Sansa, are you sleeping with my boyfriend?”

The question – and now the expectant way Annalise stared at her – barreled into Sansa and her mouth gaped open with what she hoped would be an immediate answer. Instead, a small, pitiful sound escaped her lips and her tongue suddenly couldn’t form words.

“Oh my god,” Sansa breathed and shook her head with vehement insistence. “No! Annalise, no. I swear! Why do you think that?"

“We…” Annalise sighed and rested her forehead in her palm. “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this,” she shook her head and sat up straight in her seat, seemingly steeling herself and gathering her composure. “We were having sex the other night and Sandor said your name when he came. I tried not to make a big deal out of it and told him it was okay. It’s not okay.”

Her blood ran cold, an unwelcomed sensation given Sansa’s cheeks burned hot and her legs trembled. Invasive thoughts flooded her mind in a deluge she couldn’t control if she tried.

Across the table, Annalise looked to Sansa again wanting answers. The woman appeared crestfallen and disappointed in Sansa’s previous denial. Perhaps, she’d already rationalized Sandor cheating on her with Sansa. The reality seemed to confound her and brought forth disconcerting prospects that Annalise hadn’t considered – that Sandor might feel more for Sansa than just physical attraction. In Annalise’s eyes, Sansa was already guilty – her mere existence having obviously caused a rift in Annalise’s relationship.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sansa shook her head slowly. Her heart pounded in her chest and she was certain Annalise would lunge across the table at any moment. “Maybe he was thinking about work and just accidentally said my name.” The pitiful reassurance seemed to enrage Annalise further.

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t born yesterday,” she fumed. “We both know damn well that’s not why he said _your_ name while he was fucking me." 

Sansa gaped at Annalise once more. Every instinct in her body told her to grab her purse and get the hell out of there. She shouldn’t have come and she most certainly shouldn’t stay here any longer. Sansa tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, her body still overcome with utter shock and bewilderment.

Sandor approached the table, but stopped short when he saw the horror on Sansa’s face and the anger on Annalise’s. The color drained from his skin and his jaw clenched as though he were gritting his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned, more a demand by the panicked insistence in his voice and the worry on his face. Sansa couldn’t tell who he was asking, both of them perhaps, but she had no intentions of sticking around to explain what’d just transpired. This wasn’t her battle anymore. She had her own battles waiting for her at home. She didn’t need to catch collateral damage here.

Sansa abruptly flew from her seat and steadied herself against the table when the room swayed and her knees grew weak. 

“I...I just saw…” she stammered incoherently, dizzied by a sordid clusterfuck of feelings and the buzz of a bit too much wine. “I saw a…uh…I saw a ghost.” 

“A ghost,” Sandor deadpanned, quite privy to her flimsy lie.

“Yeah.” Sansa snatched up her water glass and took a long gulp. “It walked through the wall and now I’m really scared so I think I need to go. Because…you know…ghosts are dangerous and terrifying.”

Her trembling hand haphazardly dug through her purse and clumsy fingers thumbed through her wallet. She threw down a wad of cash to the table – thirty, maybe fifty dollars – without bothering to count. She’d gladly buy her way out of this situation. 

“This was so much fun.” She fumbled through yet another lie and her arm shot out towards her jacket still thrown over the back of her chair. “Thanks. Nice…um...” As soon as her fingers brushed against the jacket, Sansa ripped it from the chair, which toppled into the table with a thud and knocked Annalise’s wine glass over. “Oops! Sorry. Nice to meet you, Annalise. Sandor, I…I have to go now.”

Sansa threw on her jacket and tossed her purse over her shoulder. With her eyes to the ground, she barreled towards the door and right into a waiter carrying a tray of food. One dish plummeted to the floor and shattered in a mess of tomato sauce and pasta.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa muttered breathlessly and hustled towards the vestibule. She burst through the door of the restaurant and out onto the sidewalk. In the cold night, her breaths crystallized in white puffs and her boots pounded against the sidewalk. A handful of streetlights feebly illuminated the side street in dull spheres of yellow light.

She wanted to cry or maybe laugh, probably both. The lump in her throat burned and the footsteps behind her grew louder, accompanied now by Sandor calling out her name.

_No. No don’t come after me, you moron! Stay with your girlfriend!_

Sansa ignored him and quickened her pace. Her boots rubbed her heel painfully, but she pressed forward – one, two, three more times Sandor hollered after her as she hurried down the street. The fourth time he called out her name Sansa stopped abruptly. 

“What?” She spun around and crossed her arms over her chest.

“A ghost? Really, Sansa?” Sandor threw his arms in the air – exasperated, exhausted, and irritated.

“I don’t know!” Sansa cried out. Her voice rose to match Sandor’s volume. “That was awkward, Sandor. Why was that awkward? It shouldn’t have been. Three people having dinner together shouldn’t be awkward!”

“I’m sorry,” he relented and settled his hands on his hips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Stupid idea on my part.”

Sandor remained a few feet from Sansa, contrition and fatigue running him ragged. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. Sansa didn’t ask him for anything else, but something compelled him to give it to her anyhow. She wished he wouldn’t. _Just walk away,_ she wanted to say to him, but felt like a hypocrite because she couldn’t tear herself away from him either and perhaps that’s precisely where their problems began – the growing reluctance to part from one another when it was painfully clear what they both wanted.

“Annalise thinks I have feelings for you,” Sandor admitted to the brick wall beside them. He couldn’t look her, even after he said it. He chewed his lip and steadied his eyes to where the brick met the cracked sidewalk.

“Well, do you?” Sansa demanded. “You said it yourself; she’s sensible. Don’t throw it back on her if that’s what’s really going on.”

Turmoil besieged Sandor. Sansa saw it plain enough in how his chest heaved with frantic breaths and his eyes darted back and forth in the space between them. The silence wore on until he looked to her and she knew he’d already resigned himself to the convenient answer.

“Look, you work for me and we’re friends,” he stated, equal measures calm and aloof. “That’s it. That’s all it is, Sansa.”

She saw it coming, but the words cut deeper than she anticipated and left her breathless and reeling in front of him, mystified by the way he’d just lied to her and not knowing what hurt most – the words or his abject refusal to speak truth.

_Walk away from him. Walk away._

Maybe she was as stupid as Joff said she was; a glutton for heartache and her wants far extending her needs. She didn’t walk away and instead invited even more pain with more questions.

“Then why did she ask me if we’re sleeping together?” Sansa asked tremulously.

Sandor stiffened with the question, every part of his body ridged and his jaw clenched.

“Sounds like you already know why she asked you that.” He shook his head and averted his eyes towards the featureless city street behind Sansa. His reluctance to look at her inspired another flush of mixed emotions – anger, sadness, and frustration. 

She turned away from him and yeaned for her lumpy mattress now more than ever. Nothing would please her more than to burrow under the covers and forget this entire evening ever happened. Before she had taken more than two steps towards her car, Sandor’s voice bellowed sharply through the thin air.  

“Oh, come on!” he shouted and closed the distance between them when Sansa turned towards him again. His own anger and frustration broke free. He’d kept it safely buttoned up in a cold façade and tepid reserve all night, but now let it pour forth all at once.

“What the hell was my birthday all about?” he demanded and his voice echoed loudly down the side street. “Huh? What was that, Sansa? And the text messages? The flirting? We’re both guilty of that. It doesn’t mean anything, though.”

“Tell your girlfriend that!” Sansa yelled indignantly and angry tears spilled over her cheeks that burned with upset and hurt.

Her pulse pounded loud in her ears as she dashed towards her car once more and frantically dug through her purse for her keys, slowing her steps long enough that Sandor’s hands wrapped around her arms. He pulled her towards him and, by instinct, she shoved her forearms against his chest and pushed with all her might.

“Stop following me!” Sansa writhed against him. She dug her heels into the ground and shoved him again, but his grip was too strong and he only held onto her tighter.

“You should be following her!” she huffed before relenting ever so slightly. Her forearms still rested against his chest and, in the midst of the struggle, his hands had slipped to her waist, gripping hard and holding her flush against him. Panting, Sansa’s lips parted and she watched Sandor’s eyes rove her body, scanning her face while his chest heaved against her. 

Tensions rose in ways they hadn’t before, the pent up frustrations a livewire thrumming mutually through them. Hot blood coursed through Sansa’s veins and she didn’t know where her anger stopped and the arousal started. Both existed in tandem. A part of her wanted to struggle against him and demand he let her go. Another part wanted him pinning her up against the car and his lips devouring every inch of her he could, hands disappearing beneath her skirt as she wrapped her legs around his waist and begged him to take her right here. 

“Go on!” Sansa shoved Sandor away from her until his hands loosened from her waist. “Your sensible girlfriend is getting away!”

She expected Sandor to walk away in defeat, but he continued to stare at her, unwavering as if there was nothing on earth that could peel his eyes away and this was one battle he wasn’t prepared to lose. Sansa reached into her purse once more and found her keys. She pulled them free and circled around to the driver’s side of her car. 

“I’ve got news for you,” she called out to Sandor who watched from the sidewalk with a grave countenance. “Annalise is not sensible. She’s mean! There’s a difference!”

In long, pounding strides, Sandor stomped into the street and, in the light afforded by the streetlamp above her car, Sansa saw the reemerging anger in his features.

“Yeah, and your boyfriend is a fucking prick, Sansa!” he bellowed loudly.

“You don’t even know him!” she shouted back. 

On the sidewalk, people leaving the restaurant gawked at them. Sansa didn’t care. Nothing mattered in this moment except the two of them and she’d fight it out with Sandor in the middle of the street for all of God’s green creation to see.

“I don’t need to know him!” Sandor raged with a fury Sansa had never seen in him before. “I don’t need to meet him to know he’s a worthless piece of shit! All I have to do is look at you. Roll up your sleeves. Are the bruises still there?”

“I’m leaving him! That’s more than you can say.” Sansa’s hands trembled and her keys fell to the ground as she tried to unlock her car door. She scooped the keys up and took deep breaths to compose herself. “At least I don’t lie to myself about what’s going on here,” she added, softer this time and accompanied by fresh tears that flowed freely down her cheeks.  

“And what’s going on here?” Sandor took a step towards her. His voice quieted too, but the frustration remained – where Sansa cried, Sandor seethed. “You seem to have it all figured out. Tell me."

“Nothing,” she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Standing in front of Sandor, Sansa felt pitiful and embarrassed that he saw how easily she cried over him. “Just like you said. There’s nothing. I work for you. That’s the only thing between us. Everything else doesn’t mean anything."

Sansa turned towards her car and swiped at the tears. With shaky hands, she managed to unlock her door. A looming shadow in the periphery of her vision, Sandor approached her. 

“Little bird,” he relented with a heavy sigh. The desperation in his voice was what made her look. She shouldn’t have. She should’ve just climbed into her car and driven away. He stared at her and took one slow step towards her, his stare insistent, as though he wanted nothing more than to hold her, anything to stop the tears he created. 

“No more little bird!” she asserted angrily, if nothing more than to prove she could hurt him too. “I’m not your little bird,” she added weakly.

“Don’t say that,” Sandor murmured on a broken exhale, the words catching in his throat, and he shook his head, imploring her to relent. “Sansa, please-” he began and reached out for her.

She contemplated letting him pull her back into his arms and finish what they’d already started. She wanted nothing more than his lips against hers, to be wrapped warm and safe against him, and to listen to him tell her all the things she already knew were true: he wanted her, yes, but, more than that, he wanted her to be his. 

Sansa stepped away from him until her back rested against her open car door. 

“Go home with your girlfriend, Sandor,” she spoke sadly and this time heeded her internal plea to walk away from him. Sansa climbed into her car and shut the door. She peeled away from the curb, leaving Sandor still standing in the middle of the street, watching his little bird fly away.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well..........
> 
> Don't worry! Things can only get better from here, right? ;) 
> 
> Once again, a massive thanks for all the amazing feedback on last chapter! Truly, it means a lot to me. Months ago, I had considered scrapping this story because I didn't think anyone was really interested in reading it. It'd been awhile since I updated and I didn't have much motivation to continue. You all have lit a fire under my ass and I'm so happy I've stuck with this one. So, I extend kudos to you all for showing me so much support! I couldn't have churned this chapter out so quickly without it!


	7. Interlude: The Envelope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some deliberation, I decided to split the next update into two parts - this "interlude" and the next planned chapter. It made the most sense and allowed me space to expand here without worrying about length. The end result is an update that resolves some things, but not all, and leaves doors open for continuation into the rest of what I have planned.

* * *

“Look, I’m doing all I can.” Sandor finally got an elusive word in edgewise – a small victory in the agonizing phone conversation with his client. The statement rang apt and reverberated true; a newfound mantra for a week full of damage control.

The receiver rested painfully against Sandor’s shoulder, held there by his chin while he thumbed through the orderly stacks of papers on his desk. He liked the crisp rustling sound and the feel of the paper’s edge against the pad of his thumb. The small pleasure kept him preoccupied while the client yammered on. The neurotic man had made a fine art of talking in circles, never really saying much and monopolizing conversations to the point that Sandor only listened to every other sentence. A pop-up on his computer screen caught his attention, a reminder for his next call.

All day his outlook calendar had graciously reminded him how busy he was and how much he’d crammed into his schedule. Meetings, phone calls, off-site surveillance. No rest for the weary. Business was booming and, lucky him, it offered a distraction from last week’s shit storm.

 _Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to get this guy off the phone._ Quite the ambitious task, but Sandor wasn’t one to back down from a challenge and he certainly wasn’t going to be held hostage for another round of inane conversation.

“I’ve got five other cases lined up and I’m coming up on a deadline for the PD,” Sandor finally huffed into the phone. 

The client stopped mid-sentence and halfway through another circular thought. The man had danced around a partnership with Sandor for years, never quite taking the plunge and wasting Sandor’s time in the interim. Enough was enough. _Shit or get off the pot,_ Sandor thought and stared longingly at his coffee that’d gone cold an hour ago.

A light on his phone flashed red – a call on hold, probably his next client, and a timely excuse to hurry this conversation along.

“I’ve got another calling coming through. Let me shuffle some things around in my schedule and see what I can do,” Sandor offered, knowing damn well his schedule allowed for no such maneuvering. “I’ve got to run, Pete. I’ll call you next week and we’ll figure things out then.”

Pete managed a slew of departing words and Sandor hung up the call. On his computer screen, another pop-up vied for his attention, an email alert.

 ** _New Message:_ ** _< Urgent Call – Bronn> Stark, Sansa_

Sandor stilled at the sight of Sansa’s name and a cold rush worked through his limbs. The light on his phone continued to flash and the clock ticked down to his next call – the never ending demands for his attention – and yet he found himself faintly captivated, watching the pop up dissolve into the black background of his desktop. His eyes darted to the calendar beneath his keyboard.

 _Thursday. Exactly a week._ Sandor slumped further into his chair.

Time measured all the things to be done, providing a cadence to his day, a rhythm of tasks and duty. Yet, the importance of time had taken on new meaning over the past week. It now measured the absence of certain things, highlighting a growing void with each passing day of silence.

Today was Thursday and the significance sat like a sack of bricks at the pit of his stomach. One week ago today, he left the office buzzing with anticipation at seeing Sansa and boasting with pride at being asked to accompany her to an apartment viewing. The granular memory still held residual excitement, which seemed ridiculous now when held in contrast to how the evening ended: the two of them duking it out in the middle of the street; people gaping and staring as they fought like they belonged to one another. After all that shouting, a pained silence followed for an entire week and Sandor was left sorting out what part of it disturbed him most – the grueling fight or the deafening silence.

Sansa only spoke to him when absolutely necessary, but her eyes always betrayed the truth; she battled with the threshold of essential conversation. Cordial greetings and taciturn discourse – that’s how the week proceeded. Sandor solemnly ate his words and stewed in his own wrongdoing. He haphazardly navigated the convoluted landscape of their new dynamic never knowing if he should approach her – what the fuck would he even say – or let her come to him. In their separate corners, they licked their wounds and bandaged their pride, but he knew damn well he’d hurt her worse and so he backed off and told himself it was the least he could do.

He learned very quickly that Sansa Stark could repeal her warmth in a snap and protected herself behind an impenetrable reserve. She’d turned to ice and left him out in the cold. He couldn’t quite say he blamed her. Still, in each exchange, he tried to coax out that warmth again; a smile, a softening of her words as she spoke, a lingering look. She stuck to her defenses and, truth be told, he admired her all the more for it, but felt burdened by the need to rise to the occasion; to correct the dirty lie he’d told; to atone for all the missteps that’d accumulated to an insurmountable clusterfuck, which they merely maneuvered around, hoping for the best.

The best that Sandor could do was open her occasional emails and search for the small suggestion that she’d relented in her anger, enough that he could approach her. He read through the new message eagerly, scanning through it twice before the words sunk in.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **To:** Clegane, Sandor  <sclegane@cis.com>

 **From:** Stark, Sansa <sstark@cis.com>

 **Subject:** Urgent Call - Bronn 

He says it’s important and that he’ll hold.

I’m leaving now for that seminar. I know you’re busy so I’ll

forward general calls to the voicemail system.

 

Also, I need to speak with you when I get back, probably

around 3:30, but definitely before either of us leave today.

Sansa

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The last line plowed through him, grinding at his core. He read it again. He studied the words, trying to find the grey between the lines, to divine some new meaning despite plain language.

_She’s putting in her resignation._

With a week of silence, he could feel it in his bones. They couldn’t go on like this. Something had to give.

“Fuck, I should’ve talked to her sooner,” Sandor chided himself quietly and ran one palm over his face. He read her email one more time. It hardly dispelled the emergent concern.

With previous secretaries, their departure was an inconvenience; more a logistical nightmare of rehiring and training. Sansa was different. She was a part of this business now and the business was a part of him. Nothing would be the same without her. Sandor’s fingers haphazardly typed a response. Every other word was misspelled and called out with squiggly red lines. He corrected his misspellings, hit the send button, and minimized the email on his screen.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **To:** Stark, Sansa  <sstark@cis.com>

 **From:** Clegane, Sandor <sclegane@cis.com>

 **Subject:** Re: Urgent Call - Bronn

Thank you. My committee meeting finishes at 3:30. I’ll be

back to the office around 4:00. We’ll talk then.

Have fun at the seminar.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A handful of moments later, Sandor heard the front door open and then shut with a thud. The glass rattled and Sansa’s footsteps eventually waned. The little red light on his phone kept the rhythm strong until Sandor snatched up the receiver.

“What’s going on, man?” he greeted with a deep sigh.

“Not much. I just got back from Sydney.” Bronn’s voice was a welcomed sound and one Sandor hadn’t heard for the better part of two weeks. The low-level noise of city traffic filtered through the phone, the whooshing of cars speeding by and an occasional horn far in the distance. 

“How was it?” Sandor asked.

“Good, good,” Bronn responded with abnormal abbreviation. He was usually eager to relay stories from his travels – the things he’d done, seen, eaten, and explored. Only now, he continued with evident wariness. “Uh, I got a call from Annalise in the middle of a meeting with my Aussie investors. I called her back and she gave me quite an earful about you. What the fuck happened?”

Sandor quickly glanced at the clock. The question was loaded question and the story was long, something he’d have to share over beers at the lonely little bar down the street. He offered the end result instead, the sum total of all the shit that’d transpired.

“We broke up.”

In the past month, it was the most reasonable thing he and Annalise had done. Sandor couldn’t claim sadness over the break. The dull contrition surrounding the event originated from regret that things had gone so far, had gotten so messy, and that he didn’t do it sooner, the moment he saw the writing on the wall.

“Yeah, I know,” Bronn responded. “I can still hear her screaming that through the phone. Shit really got sloppy between you two. Did you break up with her or what?”          

“It was a mutual thing,” Sandor said flatly while doodling patterns on a sticky note with his fountain pen.

“Bullshit! It’s never a mutual thing. Someone always initiates it,” Bronn argued with a rumble of laughter.

Maybe that was true, but Sandor recalled the way Annalise had sat in his car outside of Zia’s and the resigned reticence that felt like mutual recognition of an impasse. He hadn’t asked if she heard his exchange with Sansa. That hardly made a difference then. Except perhaps that he’d never fight for Annalise like that and they both knew it as surely as they knew what was coming next.

Sandor offered for them to go somewhere private, somewhere comfortable where they could talk freely and openly with one another. She refused, demanding they get it over with so she could get on with her life. He endured the subsequent onslaught of scathing insults that Annalise flung at him, running the gamut from his stupidity to his insensitivity; his apparent affection for Sansa that he monstrously trotted out in front of her to his lousiness as a boyfriend, to her assertion that he’d already fucked Sansa, and finally to her wishes that she’d never met him and that he’d go straight to hell with “that redheaded bitch”. Sandor bit his tongue and buried his pride so deep he wondered if it would ever see the light of day again. Annalise’s temper functioned merely as a prelude to her infuriated demands for answers.

To those demands, he gave her the truth – all of it; the good parts – that there’d once been a time that he felt he could have loved her and that he did care for her; the bad parts – he never meant for or anticipated his feelings for Sansa to grow as they had, that he hadn’t fucked Sansa, but cared for the girl in ways that weren’t fair to Annalise and he knew that now; the parts he regretted – he should’ve broken things off sooner, he should’ve been honest with everyone involved, and that there was no excuse for his behavior; and the ending part, the final words – he was sorry, truly wished he would’ve done better by her, and never meant to hurt her the way he had.

Given the turmoil of their relationship, Sandor fully expected the final break to be just as arduous and bitter, but Annalise’s temper had quieted and she listened to what he had to say. She didn’t cry and she didn’t yell afterwards. She nodded wordlessly and agreed that they were wrong for each other; that things never should’ve gone so far between them; that turning a one-night stand into a relationship proved an awful idea. She climbed from his car then without another word said between them and marched to her vehicle parked half a block away with her head held high.

“I told her it wasn’t right that we stay together, that we should’ve ended it much sooner, and she agreed,” Sandor relayed to Bronn. “She got her stuff from my place the next day and I haven’t seen or talked to her since.”

The distilled version of events sounded simple and neatly packaged, a clean break, but it hardly felt that way. When Annalise left his car, a tremendous weight had been lifted, but, in its place, Sandor found himself burdened with something else – a different variety of relentless and sordid thoughts. Nothing felt resolved at all. 

“And what part does Sansa play in this?” Bronn asked without prompt, other than what he’d stumbled upon in the park a few weeks ago.

Words died on Sandor’s tongue, a graveyard of unspoken sentiments. He asked himself this very question and found his heart knew the answer long before his head had finally caught up.

“Annalise told me about the dinner you all had, which, by the way, what the fuck were you thinking?” Bronn pressed before Sandor could answer. “She seems pretty certain you cut her loose to go for Sansa.”

“Did you call just to give me shit about that?” Sandor countered. “It was bad judgment on my part. Trust me, I learned my lesson and the fuck if I know what I was thinking. Sansa was part of the decision, yeah,” he admitted. “Annalise and I, we just weren’t good for each other. She’s probably too much like me in some ways. I need someone more…I don’t know…”

“Redheaded? Tall? Hot? Secretarial?” Bronn chuckled after firing off Sansa’s attributes.

“I need someone who brings out a better part of me,” Sandor answered rather seriously, infusing the tone of the conversation with sudden import and gravitas. “With Annalise, I feel like we were the worst versions of ourselves with each other. I’m not proud of the way it ended or how I handled things.”

The other end of the line went quiet, save for the sound of traffic and Bronn’s exhaled breaths.

“But you’re happy it ended,” Bronn ventured on something between a statement and question.

“Yeah,” Sandor confirmed. “That was a bad situation all around. I’m happy I’m out.”

“Well, buddy, I agree, but I’m not calling about the break up exactly.” Bronn let his confession hang momentarily and Sandor could hear him tapping against the screen of his phone. “Get a load of this text Annalise sent me last night.” Bronn cleared his throat and managed his best impression of Annalise’s voice.

“‘Drinking Guinness and, of course, I thought of you first. Hope we can still be friends, Bronn. I really do.’ What the fuck, man? What the hell is that shit?”

Sandor rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers and shook his head with a sigh.

“Got me. I really don’t know.” Sandor could speculate on motives, but he had nothing more to offer than conspiratorial conjecture. Whatever the reasons, they weren’t good and they only fueled the postmortem tit-for-tat of his and Annalise’s failed relationship. He wanted no part of that, regardless of how it manifested.

“Weird, dude. Fucking weird,” Bronn grumbled. “I don’t want this to blow back on you, but I’m in a tough position here.”

 _‘Throw me a lifeline,’_ was what Bronn was really trying to say. Sandor heard it in the hesitant and questioning tone of his voice. Bronn lacked finesse in situations like these and inadvertently sunk further into strange predicaments. 

“Well, listen, if you want to be friends with her, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Sandor replied. “If you don’t, that’s fine too. There’s really no good way to respond to something like that so maybe the best thing to do is let it lie until things cool down a bit. The thing is, though, she’s not gonna let this go anytime soon and I don’t think this is the last you’ll hear of her. Whatever your choice is, just be straight.”

“That’s some solid advice coming from the guy who invited his hot secretary to dinner with his girlfriend,” Bronn jabbed with a hearty chuckle.

“How long are you going to give me hell about that?” Sandor protested.

“As long as it’s still funny, but, hey, I gotta run. One last thing, Scott was wondering if you’re still on for rugby in Tower Grove on Sunday. He wasn’t sure if you were too heartbroken to play.”

“Tell Scott to go shove his concern up his ass,” Sandor snorted on a laugh. “Yeah, I’m on for Sunday. Food and beer at my place afterwards.”

“That’s the Sandor we all know and love!” Bronn cheered. “Alright, I’ll see you Sunday then. Oh, and happy Halloween.”

“Yeah…uh…you too,” Sandor distractedly answered. Confounded, he hung up the call, certain that Bronn had it wrong. Halloween fell on a Friday this year, tomorrow. He peered at his calendar once more.

_Thursday. October 31 st._

Throughout the week, the remembrance of the holiday came in fits and starts until the minutiae of the workdays demanded Sandor’s attention and pushed all consideration of Halloween out of his mind.  

This morning he noticed Sansa had placed a small pumpkin – painted black and with a silver bow tied around the stem – on her desk. That should’ve been a clue. The girl loved Halloween – the corny movies on TV, passing out candy to trick or treaters, carving pumpkins, dressing up, decorating her apartment. Sansa chatted excitedly about all of this with Sandor in the weeks before their fight.

They’d made a habit of eating lunch together in his office and she’d sit across his desk, delightedly gushing about the holiday until she realized he’d finished his meal and she’d barely started hers. She’d ask him to tell her a story then and so he would – stories of his childhood he told no one else; of the family he once had; of his time in Iraq and Afghanistan, the times he wanted to be afraid, but knew it would cost him his life; and the good times too, the things that made him happy – his friends, his hobbies, and Ammo. Sansa loved talking about Ammo and her dog, Lady.

The chair on the other side of his desk went empty for a whole week and, for all that time, he surmised Sansa bottled up her excitement and hoarded it for another interested party, someone who would listen to her. He wished that someone could’ve been him. 

The realization left him with a hallow melancholy, a persistent sadness that festered at his middle. He knew her now and saw the loneliness she carried with her, a burden she disguised with smiles and laughter, but he saw beyond that to the parts of her she kept hidden from others. He knew she hadn’t gushed to anyone this week about her favorite holiday or the plans she was making and that knowledge pained him most of all.

When his phone rang, Sandor took the call and shelved his thoughts. They remained on the periphery of his focus and sprung up once more when he left the office and drove to midtown for his committee meeting. During his monthly meeting with other small business owners, Sandor maintained his quiet introspection. He usually contributed his thoughts and expertise, but found himself uninspired and fresh out of ideas. He spent the meeting staring at his distorted reflection in a cup of black coffee and studied the ripples cast with each stir of the plastic spoon.

_I miss her._

The thought burrowed beneath his skin and sent him fidgeting in his seat. Sansa was never more than twenty feet away from him during the day. Only a wall separated them. Yet, she was unreachable, a million miles away from him and he had no earthly idea how to traverse the chasm between them.

The other committee members rambled on, nitpicking about plans for this year’s conference in Seattle. Sandor nodded every so often if nothing more to hold up appearances that he was engaged in the conversation. The ruse wore on, but he drifted further into his ruminations. He grew restless as the clock ticked towards the end of the meeting, ever closer to the first true conversation he would have with Sansa this whole week. What would she say to him? Would he finally have a platform on which to lay down his own truths, the things he’d been too cowardly to admit to her last week?

The meeting ended just as his troubled thoughts landed on the very real possibility that Sansa would resign today. He momentarily contemplated what it would be like to walk into the office each morning and find her desk empty; to hear someone else’s voice answer the phone; to work alone; to eat lunch alone. That sobering bit of reality left him in rare form, irritated and nervous as he navigated back towards the office in the beginnings of rush-hour traffic.

He arrived ten minutes past four and parked next to Sansa’s car behind their building. Deep breaths did little to calm frayed nerves and Sandor held onto the dreary hope that perhaps he could disguise his anxiousness. With his messenger bag draped over his shoulder, he retreated into the building and slowly made his way to the third floor. Outside the office’s frosted glass door, he took one last breath for good measure and pushed through to the other side.

Sansa stood at her desk, gathering up her belongings and shoving them into her bag. She offered him a quick smile, a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes betrayed nothing. When Sandor returned her smile, she’d already looked away, her attention on the Tupperware containers she packed neatly into her lunchbox.

“Hi,” she greeted with a delicate sigh. With each of her movements, the bracelets on her wrist jangled softly. She was already bundled up in a black pea coat with a blue scarf thrown around her neck.

“Hey.” Sandor approached her desk with tentative steps and his hands stuffed in his pockets. Sansa continued her ministrations with her eyes downturned, but her cheeks were flushed, he noticed. “How was the seminar?”

 _“Creative Marketing in Untapped Sectors.”_ He remembered the title and how she’d seemed almost certain he wouldn’t let her attend. Sansa asked him weeks ago with uncharacteristic reserve, at least in those days when their conversations with one another were fluid and easy, filled with laughter and flirtation too.When he agreed that she should go, Sansa beamed with joy and only then admitted her hesitance in asking. Though they both laughed it off, the admission stung. They knew one another; well enough that he hoped she understood there wasn’t much he’d deny her. If he told her that now, would she believe him? He had already denied her things she needed to hear from him – his feelings for her and a candid recognition of what had developed between them.

“Good,” Sansa shrugged, still averting her gaze. “I networked and made some new contacts.” She leaned over her chair and closed out of her email before logging off her computer. “I learned a lot so I’m happy I went,” she added as an afterthought of sorts and her mind somewhere else entirely.

With his pride unearthed, Sandor wanted to retreat to his office, but found himself rooted in front of her desk. His back straightened and jaw clenched, but his heart pounded wildly within his chest and his palms were covered in a sheen of sweat.

“Thanks for taking the initiative on that,” he replied tepidly. “I really appreciate it.”

Sansa continued to withhold her stare and any other form of passing acknowledgement that he was still there. Sandor swallowed hard and turned away from her desk when he saw her shoulders tense. He felt like an intruder now and refused to force conversation for his own reassurances. He only made it a few steps from her desk before Sansa spoke. When she did, her words came all at once as if she couldn’t speak them fast enough.

“How was your committee meeting?”

Sandor turned around and found Sansa playing with the rabbit’s foot on her keychain. She ran her thumb over the white fur and wrapped it up in her palm. Her gaze shifted from her hands then to him and back again. Her icy reserve seemed to thaw and, if she wanted to relent, it appeared she didn’t know where to even begin. Just as they mutually lowered their guard, the ability to talk to one another fled and now an uncomfortable silence remained. They shared in that silence and also in the sad realization that the void still existed between them, the desire to be near one another no longer enough to navigate the distance. _How do we get back to where we were?_

The question lingered heavy, unasked perhaps because there was no good answer. The only thing Sandor could think of was to cross the room and hold her against him, exactly where she belonged, to murmur the truth against her lips in between slow kisses: this past week was pure hell and he wanted her – in every conceivable way, all of her – and that he was fucking crazy about her.

When he could no longer ignore the growing weight between them, Sandor answered a different question instead and remained where he was, a few feet from his office door. 

“The committee meeting was the same as always; a room full of people who like to hear themselves talk, but I got more information about the conference in Seattle so it wasn’t a total bust.”

Sansa set her keys on the desk and nodded. With her hands no longer preoccupied, she finally looked at him and he looked back. Pretty curls framed her face and cascaded over her shoulders. Her lips appeared fuller than usual and her eyes held more sadness than he’d seen in them before. She didn’t smile now to mask that sadness. She let him see her for all that she was and his heart raced faster, blood coursing through his veins.  

 _Tell her how you feel. Tell her the truth._ The words bubbled up inside of him and almost burst through his lips, but stopped short. Maybe she didn’t want to hear this. Maybe it was too late and they’d stopped before ever really starting. That would be the great tragedy of it all. They’d drift further apart and move on from one another without ever knowing what might’ve been – something great, beyond what either of them had experienced before. Sandor cleared his throat and pulled his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest.

“You said you wanted to talk so whenever you’re ready, I’ll just be in my office.”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll be done here in a second,” Sansa replied and grabbed up the small black pumpkin. Sandor returned to his desk, leaving the door to his office open. He watched Sansa shove the pumpkin into her bag and glance around her desk for anything she might’ve missed. His heart sank despite his mind screaming at him to pull it together. He couldn’t shake the idea that these might be the last moments with her.  Of all the somber thoughts that’d besieged him this afternoon, surely he could think of something to say, something that might convince her to stay. Sorry hardly seemed enough.

Sansa pulled a black envelope from her purse and began towards his office. She tried to hide it in her hands, sandwiching it between her palms. The corners stuck out along with two parallel edges.

Of course, her attention to detail would extend to a resignation letter. Sandor looked away quickly as she approached. Sansa stopped beneath his doorframe and rapped her knuckles softly against wood. He swiveled his chair in her direction and motioned for her to come in.

“Have a seat,” he said and cleared a stack of files from his desk to busy his trembling hands.

Sansa gave a stiff smile and hid the envelope behind her back as she entered the room. She sat at the edge of the wooden chair on the other side of his desk, her back straight and head high in placid reserve. She placed the envelope in her lap and, for a few moments, her eyes flickered over the objects on his desk – the glass paperweight, the mahogany nameplate engraved with his title, his doodles on the pad of sticky notes, which she smiled gently at. 

“Um…so…I don’t know where to even start,” she admitted quietly before closing her eyes and giving a small shake of her head. Sandor rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. When Sansa opened her eyes again, she looked him squarely in the face. “This week has been really rough; not just for me, but I’m sure for you too. I don’t like where we left everything off and I really don’t want things to continue as they have this past week.”

She had more to say, but stopped as if to measure his reaction to her words. The late afternoon sun streamed through the window and illuminated her face in a soft halo of light. Her wide eyes glistened, her brow folded, and her lips parted when she drew in a deep breath. Sandor let his arms fold in on one another and leaned forward, resting his weight against the edge of the desk.

“I agree,” he nodded. “I apologize for how things have been. I probably should’ve breached this topic a few days ago. I just wanted to respect your boundaries.”

The words came stoic and mechanical. Sandor could’ve sworn he backed them with his full sincerity. He meant every word, but Sansa seemed to shudder from his own apparent iciness, inadvertent though it was.

“I know I wasn’t the most approachable person this week. I realize that.”

She matched his reserve and, for a moment, Sandor thought they’d reached their respective ends of the chasm and could go no further. Sansa looked to him, head tilted slightly to the side and the struggle of all those unspoken things pooled in her eyes brimmed with tears. She wouldn’t let them break free. Not now. He knew her well enough to know the parameters of her pride. Now wasn’t the time, but when she spoke again, she spoke with conviction he hadn’t expected and a fervor of all the things he surmised she’d been bottling up.

“I just miss us being able to talk to each other and I miss things being easy,” Sansa threw her hands in the air and sighed with exasperation. “I miss eating lunch with you. I miss hearing your stories. And...and…I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I miss us being friends. I know everything got complicated and I’m sorry. I just really want things to be like they were before all of this ever happened. Can we, I don’t know, hit the restart button or something?”

Stunned into a brief silence and blindsided by her words, Sandor nodded vacantly and corralled his composure. He watched Sansa shrink within her seat, already crumbling in anticipation of his answer. He recognized the features of her hesitance and the way she’d already convinced herself he might deny her this request.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Sandor breathed. He relinquished his stoicism and contrition now found it’s proper place. Every word came forth with easy insistence and the burden of guilt slowly released its hold on him. “You don’t need to apologize for anything, Sansa. I’m the one who fucked things up. I’m so sorry about that. I was out of line. I never intended to make things awkward or difficult for you. I feel awful for how things ended last Thursday and how they’ve been this past week. It was my fault.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly blameless either. I’m sorry too, Sandor.” Sansa stared at him through her lashes and bit her bottom lip, a move that left him transfixed on her perfect mouth and a reminder of how badly he wanted to kiss her, especially now. “Restart?” She leaned forward and extended her hand to him across the desk. 

“Restart,” Sandor concurred with a half-smile.

He wrapped his fingers around her palm and his thumb gently smoothed over the back of her hand. Sansa’s lips parted at the contact and Sandor imagined he knew how she felt. For now, a handshake would have to do. 

“I want you to have this.” Sansa let go of his hand and retrieved the envelope from her lap. She handed it to him with a smile just as Sandor felt his lips drop into a frown. He’d almost forgotten about it and his worries that she’d crafted an eloquent resignation still stirred somewhere deep within him.

“What is it?” he asked warily and took the square envelope from her.

“Open it,” Sansa cajoled eagerly.

Sandor turned the envelope over and stuck his finger beneath the flap. He tore away at the back of the envelope and lifted one brow at Sansa inquisitively. She smiled in return. Not a half-hearted smile. Not a sad smile. The first real smile he’d seen from her in a week. The envelope glittered green on the inside and housed a black card. On the front, green embossed letters read:

 

**_Margaery Tyrell’s Boos and Booze Halloween Bash_**

**_Thursday, October 31 st. 8:00 pm – 1:30 am_ **

**_Blueberry Hill. Invitation Only._ **

 

“She’s my friend,” Sansa told Sandor before he’d finished reading the invitation. “I thought if you weren’t doing anything tonight you might like to come.”

“Blueberry Hill.” Sandor noted the location, a legend in this city. Someone must’ve thrown down a lot of money to secure the place for the entire evening. “How did she manage that?”

“Her family is friends with the owner,” Sansa replied with a shrug. “Plus, she’s a Tyrell.”

The last name spoke for itself. The Tyrell’s transplanted to the city decades ago, but their name preceded them and their investments in emergent biotech markets followed.

“Impressive.” Sandor tucked the invitation back into the envelope and placed it in front of his keyboard. “Yeah, I’ll definitely try to make it if I can get out of this place at a decent hour.”

“Um, there are actually two invites,” Sansa added and shifted in her seat. “Annalise is more than welcome to come, although, I’m sure she never wants to see me again and I don’t blame her.”

Sandor exhaled a nervous laugh and ran his fingers through the length of his hair. The conversation had suddenly veered towards awkwardness, which he was content to squash once and for all.

“Sansa, about Annalise–” He began, now well versed in the cliff notes version of how things ended. His words were abruptly cut off.

“No. I don’t want you to explain,” Sansa insisted and lifted a hand to quiet him. “Come or don’t come, but you’re invited and so is she. Feel free to wear a costume if you want.”

Sansa rose from her seat and drew in a deep breath. She smiled politely and pushed the chair back towards his desk.

“I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to help Margaery set up, but I really hope I see you later tonight.”

“Sansa,” Sandor repeated calmly, hoping it would still her movements. She hurried from his office, even though he knew damn well she heard him say her name.

“Oh, don’t forget I have tomorrow off too!” She hollered from the other room. Her keys jangled as she snatched them from her desk and she rushed towards the door with her bags thrown over her shoulders. Sansa waved a hasty goodbye at him and Sandor watched her scurry from the office as fast as her overloaded bags would allow.

For the next few hours, he settled into an easy pace of work with his mind now at ease and drifting regularly to his conversation with Sansa. His outlook calendar gave up the ghost at a quarter till seven. The final reminder popped up on the screen; almost buried behind email drafts, word documents, and excel sheets, the artifacts of a day’s end hard won. However, this particular call was anticipated and, by design, left for the end of the day when Sandor was free of pressing appointments and meetings.

He dialed his accountant’s number and, for the next half hour, discussed the prospects of the coming fiscal year. Towards the end of the conversation, Sandor listened intently as the man listed a few highpoints of the preliminary projections.

“Green light for a business and marketing department to include staffing or promotions as you see fit. Green light for salary increases. Green light for additional staff. And I think you’ll be able to swing expanding your office space by the end of the second quarter if you keep up this pace. I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it. These figures are outstanding.”

“All good things to hear. Thanks, Alan.” Sandor stood from his seat and clicked out of the documents on his screen. “Let’s meet next week. I want the numbers hammered out before Thanksgiving.”  

The call ended there and, though he was exhausted, Sandor’s mind continued to toil over work, unable to quit now. He grabbed up his messenger bag and contemplated the folder on his desk that housed his ideas for the fiscal year. Inside were half-baked plans, all in varying states of development and all demanding his attention. _Get it finished._

He chewed his bottom lip and quietly estimated how much longer he could put off the monumental task. An hour from now, he could be seated at his kitchen table, a beer in one hand and his fountain pen in the other, ready to burn the midnight oil and finish solidifying his plans for growing the business.

With a heavy sigh, Sandor reached for the file, but abruptly stopped short. The black envelope’s green flap caught his attention, gleaming beneath the desk lamp.

Sandor picked up the envelope and pressed it between his palms where it was neatly hidden and the parallel edges safely secured. Save for a small sliver of each corner, it fit within his hands. He turned his gaze over his shoulder and stared towards Sansa’s desk.

_Fuck it._

Sandor tucked the envelope into the front pocket of his messenger bag and left the office with the file still sitting on his desk. The ideas would be there tomorrow morning, but Sansa would not and it was about time he gave her what they both wanted – the truth and perhaps a beginning to something he knew could great. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter caused quite a stir! Understandably so. Thank you for all who provided great feedback and discussions. All very much appreciated and I really enjoyed hearing your thoughts! While I can't please everyone all the time (nor do I try), I hope you can trust the direction I've taken this story and the decisions I make for the characters. I have a vision. Trust the process. We'll get there.
> 
> In the mean time, thank you a million times over for the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and all the other demonstrations of support. It means a lot to me!
> 
> Also, yay! I finally figured out how to embed the pic sets! At long last!


	8. Feline

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With a bowl of mini wheats in his hands and Ammo passed out at his feet, Sandor ate over the kitchen sink and tried not to dribble milk down the front of his sweater. The microwave’s green glow display turned to eight just as he lifted his eyes to it. _Late. And how the hell is it eight already?_

He’d left the office well after the sun set and a cold night emerged in its place. A silver sliver of moon hung in the sky until dark clouds swept in and blotted it out. By staying late, he’d avoided the worst of traffic and his commute home – typically thirty minutes or more – was cut in half. The evening walk he always took Ammo on had turned into a run and, in the last stretch from the park back home, it manifested into a sprint. Ammo raced ahead of him with his tail wagging wildly and he waited for Sandor at the front door.

While he may have relished a long, hot shower at the end of a grueling day, Sandor scrubbed down quickly, toweled off, and threw on a pair of black pants and a black knit sweater. He didn’t bother to properly dry his hair. After squeezing out the excess water, he pulled on a black beanie and let the damp tendrils air-dry.

Standing in front of his sink, Sandor felt the fatigue set in now. It soaked to his bones and his eyes drifted to his couch in the other room. It held an unusual appeal, one he wasn’t accustomed to after a desk-bound day.

 _No._ Sandor shook his head against the tantalizing thought of ordering in a pizza and crashing on the couch because he’d already made up his mind about how to spend the evening. He found himself hardly sated by his brief interaction with Sansa and only now came to realize how profoundly he craved her. Tumult emerged at the pit of his stomach along with a buzz running through his limbs, mounting with every passing minute that he carefully noted on the clock.

He knew this feeling: unprecedented anticipation. He’d always experienced it in a different context and within the framework of bloody war. Now, when the expectant need sprouted up, it brought forth an ache for something more.

For the sake of time and time alone, he woofed down the mushy remnants of mini wheats, even though they tasted like shit – stale and soupy after sopping up the last bit of milk. He set the bowl in the sink and crouched in front of Ammo.

“I’ll be back later, buddy,” Sandor murmured and scratched behind Ammo’s ear. The dog groaned in response and rested his nose between his front paws with a deep sigh. “I promise it’ll be you and me this weekend, Am. Rugby on Sunday. Get excited.”

Sandor threw on his leather jacket and patted both of his back pockets, checking for his keys, wallet, and phone, before heading for the door.

Outside, a few vampires, superheroes, and video game characters still stalked the streets of his neighborhood with bored parents in tow. He pulled from his driveway and carefully navigated towards the main road with an eye out for loitering trick or treaters.

After a fifteen-minute drive towards the north side of town, he ended up on the main drag of the Loop – a popular street lined with restaurants, bars, and shops adorned in neon lights. The tourists flocked here in droves nowadays. They came to observe the alternative “weirdos” with bright colored hair and piercings in odd places, to eat at the legendary food joints, and to say they’d experienced all those places they’d read about on the Internet.  

Sandor avoided this part of town and struggled to remember the last time he’d ventured here – perhaps between deployments when his buddies insisted they all grab a drink and catch up before Sandor headed off again. The lights, the tourists, the eccentric weirdos – it reminded him of those years of uncertainty, always questioning if it would be the last time he’d see his friends at some kitschy bar that overcharged for mediocre beer. Now, everything felt strange; the Loop invoking a series of déjà vu moments and memories from a lifetime ago.

After circling the main drag a few times and trolling the back lots for parking, Sandor bit the bullet, paid ten dollars for parking spot, and began the two-block trek towards Blueberry Hill. He dodged clusters of people all dressed in their costumes and many already enjoying a buzz. The sidewalk outside of Blueberry Hill remained more or less vacant and had been blocked off with black velvet rope barriers. Two behemoth men dressed in all black stood at the entrance of those barriers. They matched Sandor in height, but their stocky, barrel-chested builds seemed to inspire apprehension in the short line of people waiting to get into the party. The bouncers stoically checked invitations at the door and motioned people in with a humorless nod.

Sandor approached the rope and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which were empty, save for a few gum wrappers and some spare change. He patted the back pockets of his pants, but already knew he’d find nothing there either.

 _Fuck._ The invite was still in his messenger bag slung over the back of his kitchen chair. He had forgotten to grab it in his haste to get out the door.

“Goddamnit,” he breathed, his frustration manifesting on a grey puff of air. He approached the entrance anyway, certain the “security” was for show.

“Hey man, I’m meeting a friend inside,” he informed plainly. The bouncer quirked an eyebrow at him and his eyes flickered over Sandor’s form, scrutinizing his height and scars too.

“No invite, no party,” the brawny man grunted.

“You can’t be fucking serious, man,” Sandor countered to an unfazed bouncer who merely ignored him and steadied his gaze to the street. Sandor dug into his pocket for his phone and scrolled through his text messages until he found Sansa’s name.

Halfway through a vaguely irritated text, he felt a soft touch against his bicep where small fingers gripped him gently.

“Are you Sandor?” a female voice asked, high-pitched and unfamiliar.

He looked up from his phone to find a brunette girl standing in front of him. She craned her neck towards him and smiled brightly, revealing a row of perfectly white, straight teeth, veneers if he had to guess.

The girl’s thigh-high black boots with tall heels only brought her an inch below his chin. She wore a top hat with a red satin ribbon around its base and a pair of gold shorts barely covered her ass cheeks. The tops of her cleavage spilled from a corset covered over with a red waistcoat adorned in big brass buttons. The whip in her hands rounded out her ringleader attire.

“Yeah,” Sandor responded and furrowed his brow at the girl. Whoever she was, her perfume invaded his nose with a strong floral scent. Her long waves of brown hair glittered beneath the neon lights above them. In fact, every inch of her exposed skin was covered in a dusting of gold glitter, which was now stuck to the leather of his jacket where she’d touched him.

“I’m Margaery,” the girl introduced and set about running the whip’s leather tassels through her palm. “I saw you out here and remembered Sansa mentioned that she invited you. Did you forget your invite?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not standing out here to willingly freeze my balls off,” Sandor remarked. He hadn’t meant to be witty or funny, but Margaery laughed merrily anyhow.

“Silly man.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile. “Freezing your balls off will be unnecessary. And tragic. Follow me."

She continued towards the front entrance, hips swaying in odd exaggeration as she went, unashamed of the view she was giving him.

“This one’s with me, Raoul,” she told the bouncer who’d given Sandor shit moments ago. Sandor followed Margaery into the small vestibule and through another set of doors. She stopped once inside the restaurant and turned to him. 

“Drinks are on the house.” She pointed to the bar in front of them manned by two bartenders busily filling drink orders. “If you’re hungry, food is in the next room. Just seat yourself at a table and the wait staff will serve from the menu. No charge, just tip. Music and dancing are in the duck room downstairs. Pool, darts, and other games are in the dart room.” 

Sandor nodded, half-listening as his eyes roved over the open space decked out with green and black decorations. The Tyrell girl had transformed Blueberry Hill into her own vision. The restaurant was typically adorned from wall-to-wall with cases of pop memorabilia and collections unearthed from sport fanatics. The colorful displays were no match for the campy decorations – string lights, candelabras with tapered candles, tables covered with white and grey pumpkins delicately painted in black designs, and all manner of items fitting a vintage horror aesthetic. The girl seemed rather proud of her creation; that, or pleased she’d gotten her moneybags father to fund the extravagant event.

Margaery smiled at him once more. One brow lifted and her red lacquered lips pursed. “If you need anything else, I’d be more than happy to oblige. Just come and find me.”

“Thanks. Where’s Sansa?” Sandor asked. He spotted no redheads at the bar and the high-backed, mahogany booths that lined the far wall were similarly devoid of her.                    

“The last I saw her, she was in the dart room,” the girl responded and unbuttoned her waistcoat. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and settled her hands on her hips.

Sandor grumbled his thanks and his gaze remained fixed towards the dart room beyond the wall of booths.

“My pleasure, Sandor. So lovely to finally meet you,” Margaery replied a bit too sweetly for his liking. Hers was artificial sweetness and in obvious contrast to Sansa’s genuine kindness. Sandor noticed the difference immediately.

“Okay,” he responded flatly and headed off towards the dart room.

The crowds seemed to have gathered there. In the large room lined at the back with tables, people sat in their respective groups, shooting the breeze and gulping down their fill of free drinks. On the other end of the space, a row of dartboards hung on the wall with chalkboards next to each. A few feet behind them, people stood along a long line of tall tables and waited for their turn to throw. 

Sandor scanned each cluster of people, certain Sansa would be among one of them – laughing, drinking, and perhaps hardly noticing his late arrival. His gaze eventually landed to the far, dimly lit corner of the room where a table had been set up with a black and green-striped cloth. On it, large glass jars of varying sizes and shapes had been set out, each holding a different candy. Sansa sat alone on the edge of the table and studied a glass memorabilia case on the wall adjacent to her. Her feet swung back and forth as she nibbled on a small candy bar.

She didn’t notice him crossing the room towards her. The raucous laughter from partygoers and the music drifting through the speakers surely drowned out the sound of his footsteps. Her head tilted back and she stared at the ceiling. Her eyes drifted further down the far wall, across the floor, and finally onto Sandor, who’d reached her by then.

Her bored and faintly somber expression immediately gave way to delight, which lit up her eyes and sent a smile erupting across her lips.

“You came!” she cried out and hopped from the table. With her mouth stuffed full of candy, she exhaled a giggle and quickly swallowed. “What’s your costume supposed to be? A burglar?”

Sandor looked down at his outfit with a rumble of laughter. Dressed all in black, it wasn’t a completely outlandish guess.

“No, a guy who needs a drink,” he japed with a grin.

“Very clever,” she rolled her eyes, which then roved over him; from his black shoes to his leather jacket, then to his hair that’d dried to thick waves, his beanie, his lips still stuck in a smile, and finally to his eyes that’d been appraising her too.

A black dress clung to Sansa’s curves quite nicely, falling mid-thigh, but her legs weren’t bare. She wore thick black tights and flat shoes covered in black sequins. She’d pinned her hair back from her face at the temples and a pair of cat ears rested on top of her head. Across her cheeks, she’d drawn on whiskers and, at the tip of her nose, colored in a black upside-down triangle.

In the short cadence of silence, they smiled at one another. Something about the two of them together always felt like they were seeing each other for the first time. Sandor’s heart thrummed, his pulse quickened, and he thought the same thing as always. _She’s so fucking pretty._

“A cat. I like it,” he complimented with an appreciative nod. When Sansa resumed her spot at the edge of the candy table, he took a seat next to her.

“Thanks.” Her eyes scanned the room. “I didn’t have time to go shopping for a costume. I feel like maybe I should’ve done more or something,” she added with a shrug.

Sandor followed her eyes to the center of the room and traced the line of her thoughts. The other girls had obviously gone to great lengths to put together their costumes. Their make-up and hair were done with meticulous detail. The “sexy” version of every profession was represented here – sexy nurse, sexy referee, sexy schoolgirl, sexy firefighter. Mostly, the girls wore lingerie with a few key accessories from their chosen vocation.

“No, I like your costume the best.” He meant it, but Sansa snorted a laugh as soon as the words left his lips.

“Oh, yeah right!” she countered and cast a dubious glance in his direction. “There are tits and ass everywhere here.”

She had a point about that, but maybe she hadn’t seen the way he struggled not to stare at her, to look too long, or how he’d inched closer to her and now his arm pressed against her shoulder, anything to be nearer to her.

“I stand by my choice,” Sandor insisted. “I like yours the best.”

“You like my tits and ass the best?” Sansa looked up at him, smiling shyly, but her eyes danced with interest and curiosity.

A deep chuckle rolled from Sandor’s lips. The truth of the matter was that he very much liked her tits and ass far better than anyone else’s. His eyes wanted to drift again, but he could still feel her gaze on him.

“I meant your costume,” he said.

Sansa buried her face in her hands to disguise her blush and laughed into her palms. Sandor took the opportunity to admire her once more. She had no idea how gorgeous she was. Effortless, that was the crux of it. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she laughed, cried, smiled – everything about her held some sort of enchantment for him, commandeering his attention on a near-constant basis.

She pulled her hands away from her face, smiling still and her eyes glistening from laughter. With a glance over his shoulder, Sandor glimpsed a pile of candy wrappers behind him, torn open and strewn about in a small circle. 

“You’ve really done a number over here,” he commented.

“I know. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner so I’ve been eating candy all night,” Sansa balled up the wrappers in her fist and tossed them into a trashcan beneath the table. “Five packs of skittles and four milky ways later and I’m still hungry.”

“Let’s get something to eat.” Sandor stood from the table and stretched his arms over his head until his back popped. “All I ate for dinner was a bowl of stale mini wheats.”

Though he wasn’t quite in the throes of hunger pangs just yet, Sandor wanted a drink in his belly and a chance to talk to Sansa. It seemed he’d find neither in this room, which pulsed with a rising tempo of merriment and music. The clusters of partygoers grew with new arrivals and the subsequent hoopla of greetings added to the volume.

“Not the dinner of champions you hoped for?” Sansa bantered. She slid from the table and readjusted her cat ears.

“Nope,” Sandor shook his head and led the way towards the next room.

The booths were all occupied, threes and fours crammed into each side of the table. Similarly, a hoard had descended on the bar. People lined up two or three deep around the entire perimeter and waited patiently for their drinks. 

At the far end of the establishment, through another threshold, a large dining area boasted a handful of empty tables at the center and booths along the periphery, only one of which was empty. Lit in dull light, the space held a cozy charm to it, a quiet den carved out and set aside. Devoid of music, actual conversations could be carried out and it seemed the ones who had retreated in here did just that – engaging one another in deep discussions shared over pints of beer.

Sandor took a seat on one side of the empty booth and Sansa settled in across from him. A pendant light hanging above the table cast a soft glow between them and the high backs of the wooden booth provided some measure of privacy.

Frankenstein’s monster fluttered to the end of their table with his arms politely folded behind his back and sweat beading on his forehead painted green.

“Happy Halloween. Can I get you something to drink?” he inquired.  

“Lemon drop martini,” Sansa replied.

“Manhattan,” Sandor ordered in turn.

The waiter disappeared from the table, leaving Sansa and Sandor thrust into a sudden silence; the same silence Sandor hoped for, a space to fill with words past due, but those words escaped him now. He felt further stifled with each passing moment where nothing was said.

Sansa seemed to feel it too – the surmounting pressure to speak and the worry that the words might tumble out as a misspoken mess if either of them did. She’d already begun scanning the menu, but every so often Sansa would glance at him from beneath her lashes. Her eyes didn’t linger long and, when Sandor did the same with in an equally discreet stare, it’d be right at the moment she was looking at him. In synchronous fashion, both their gazes would then snap to the menus in front of them. The rigmarole wore on for another few cycles until the waiter appeared with their drinks.

“Are you two ready to order?” the guy asked. Sansa and Sandor looked at each other, each hesitant to admit that, despite being superficially engrossed in their menus, neither had _really_ looked at them.

“Give us a few minutes,” Sandor responded and the waiter graciously obliged, heading for a table across the room in bouncing cantor ill-suited for his costume.

“Is Annalise coming?” Sansa asked right before she lifted her drink to her lips; a moment where her eyes could naturally remain downturned and she didn’t risk giving anything away by looking at him. 

“No,” Sandor shook his head. “We broke up last week.” The words came plain and unabashed, something that seemed to surprise Sansa. While he swirled his rocks glass, she looked at him with wide-eyes and her drawn-on whiskers sinking with a frown. 

He didn’t quite know what to expect from her when sharing this bit of news. Unfaltering manners precluded any overt display of her feelings, though they were usually rather transparent, despite her best efforts to safeguard.

“Oh.” She slumped against the back of the booth and took one long pull on her yellow cocktail with a sugar rim. Her reaction was one Sandor hadn’t anticipated. Guilt. Her countenance reflected all the tell tale signs – pouting lips and peripheral upset. She considered herself partially responsible, but he’d be damned if he let her slip into silent self-deprecation for the remainder of the evening.

“It was for the best,” Sandor preempted before Sansa could formulate a proper response. “She wasn’t the right one.”

Somewhat startled by his honesty, Sansa sat straight up in a one controlled, graceful movement that appeared to take deliberate effort on her part. She took another sip of her drink, a longer pull that before and one that left her glass a third of the way empty now.  

“Well, I know it was a tough situation,” Sansa offered. She folded her arms against the table and leaned forward. “Break ups are never easy, but now you can put it behind you.”

Sandor nodded at the generic advice. All his friends had said the same thing, perhaps expecting him to be torn up over the break. Sansa knew better than that, but, polite as ever, she said the things she knew to say, if only to assuage her own guilt rather than the heartbreak she knew damn well he wasn’t afflicted with. 

“You want my cherry?” Sandor fished the maraschino’s stem from his glass and held it towards her.

“Sure,” Sansa smiled softly and took it from him. She popped the cherry into her mouth, but drops of whiskey and vermouth loitered on her bottom lip. She licked at the liquid and gave a small, almost indiscernible hum as though she savored the taste of whiskey and cherries on her tongue. If she were his girl, this would be the moment he’d lean across the table and lick at her bottom lip before seeing for himself how good cherry tasted on her. 

Sandor sipped on his Manhattan. His skin felt flushed, a steady heat bursting at the back of his neck and down his arms. He couldn’t decide if he was burning up because of his jacket, the warmth of whiskey spreading through his chest, or the stray thoughts of the parts of Sansa he was dying to taste.

He mumbled something about being hot and shucked out his jacket just as the waiter returned to the table and Sansa gave her order. Once more, he hadn’t even looked at the menu, but seconded Sansa’s request for a cheeseburger and fries. The waiter left and Sandor pulled off his beanie. Smiling sweetly at him, Sansa watched as he ran his fingers through his hair. She sipped her drink and bit her lip.

“I told Joffrey I was moving out,” she admitted with some hesitation – a suggestion there was a great deal more to this story and this tidbit was just a toe in deep and unsettled waters.  

“How did that go?” Sandor infused some measure of calm into his voice, enough to soften the edges of his concern and encourage her candor.

“He was really angry at first,” Sansa shrugged and an exasperated laugh accompanied a roll of her eyes. “He threatened all sorts of things.”

Sandor’s breathing quickened and came now in hot bursts. Even with his jacket off, the burning against his skin resumed for far different reasons.                                               

“He didn’t–” Sandor started, subtly lurching forward in his seat. Sansa interjected and firmly shook her head.

“No,” she reassured and rested her hand on top of his. The soft touch of her palm against his skin lasted only a moment, but Sandor settled into his seat at the contact. He took a sip of his drink as Sansa continued. “I told him the morning he left town on a business trip, that way he’d have a chance to cool off a bit. We talked a few days ago. He seems accepting of it now; not like he doesn’t care, but that he’s trying to make amends.”

_Bullshit._

Sandor’s knee-jerk reaction was to deliver some hard truths – that Joff seemed like a guy who craved control above all else and Sansa functioned as merely an extrapolation of that need, an object to possess. That sort of toxic dynamic hardly lent itself to acceptance and understanding. If Joff wanted to hold onto her, he did exactly as Sandor would expect – dole out the sugar first. He’d follow with venom when things didn’t go his way.

Sandor forced an uneasy smile, one that must’ve been entirely unconvincing. He lifted his drink to his lips and swallowed down a long gulp, along with all his personal thoughts on Joffrey’s unexpected acquiescence. He knew his place and right now it was as her supportive friend.

“I guess I just want things to end amicably, you know?” she defended, perhaps assuming his reticence meant disapproval.

“Yeah, I definitely get it. The less drama the better,” Sandor agreed. “My only concern is his sincerity here. I don’t want him flipping a switch on you and making your life hell.”

“I don’t want that either,” Sansa assured. “Trust me, I haven’t let my guard down.”

She nursed her drink and licked at the granulated sugar on the rim with each sip. Sandor watched her, but in the absence of desire this time. He’d found something else to admire in her, something else she remained unapprised of – her own strength and the will of her character even in the face of heartache and humiliation. Leaving her relationship would require a strange, sad finesse to untangle herself out of Joffrey’s hold, a morbid and dangerous dance of sorts. Little by little, Sansa had done this – patiently, skillfully, and with the same grace she approached all other things.  

“I’m proud of you.” There were so many other things he wanted to tell her; words that might, in some small way, mirror all that he saw in her. No longer preoccupied with its sweetness, Sansa set her drink to the table with deliberate care and gazed at him fondly.

“That means a lot to me,” she insisted as if he might not believe her. “I’m proud of you too.” Once more, she packed her words with an extra dose of sincerity to dispel any of his skepticism. Her lips parted into smile and she lifted her glass to him. “To making the best out of terrible breakups.”

“We can do better than that,” Sandor cajoled with a chuckle and clinked his glass against hers. “To being on speaking terms again.”

“Yes,” Sansa concurred with a slow nod and her eyes remaining squarely on him. “I will drink to that.”

Hulk Hogan approached their table with one plate in each hand and a red and yellow feather boa trailing behind him with each wide stride.

“Got two cheeseburgers with fries, brother!” he announced, imitating Hogan’s guttural tone. He placed the plates on the table and curled his bicep. From his back pocket, he produced a bottle of ketchup and set it between Sansa and Sandor before strutting off.

“See what you’re missing out on by not dressing up?” Sansa smiled at him and picked up a red feather Hulk Hogan had shed at their table.

“Yes, I’m crippled with regret.” Sandor exhaled a derisive laugh. “So when do you move into your new apartment?” he asked while upending the ketchup bottle over his fries.

“Next weekend. Joff’s out of town then.” Sansa took a bite of her burger and dabbed at the grease that coated her lips.

Though he knew of her plans, Sandor couldn’t quite hide his surprise that she’d made arrangements so quickly. He could share in her excitement, but couldn’t shake the feeling that Joffrey’s possessive temper would rear its head in enough time to foil her plans.

“Wow. That’s soon,” Sandor replied, the only response he could manage for the moment. “Let me know if you need any help. My friends and I would move you in exchange for beer." 

What he was dying to say, but knew he shouldn’t was that he _wanted_ to be there. Surely, the situation called for mandatory reinforcement just in case Joff had ideas of his own and Sandor didn’t doubt that the fucker most certainly had something up his sleeve.

“That’s very kind of you to offer, but my brothers, Jon and Robb, are coming to town that weekend so I think I have the heavy lifting covered.”

Sandor nodded and maintained a cool reserve.

“I mean, I don’t really have much stuff,” Sansa added with a shrug. “Oh, I am getting a new bed, though!”

Her eyes lit up – wide and glimmering – and she merrily chomped on her burger, unaware of how much exuberance poured off her whenever she spoke of her great escape.

“A new bed, huh? You’re moving up in the world,” Sandor laughed and polished off the diluted remains of his drink.  

“It’s a king size too!” she nearly squealed and bounced slightly in her seat. “I’m so excited.”

“That’s a big bed.” Sandor envisioned the logistics of squeezing a king size bed into the tiny room at the top of the spiral staircase in her apartment. He certainly didn’t envy the soul who’d have to accomplish that task.

“Well, I need lots of space,” Sansa remarked with torrid undertones quieting her voice. Her hair fell behind her shoulder, exposing the length of her neck. She looked at him from beneath her lashes. He momentarily mistook Sansa’s declaration to be her trying sultry on for size. However, she nibbled on her fries, appearing every bit the ingénue and entirely unaware of how her statement sounded.

Sandor said nothing, but lifted one eyebrow at her in response and his lips pulled into a devilish smile.

“Not like that!” she quickly corrected. “I move around when I sleep and always end up like a star fish in the middle of the bed.” 

“I’m not judging.” Sandor lifted his hands in the air with a chuckle then delved back into his burger.

When a pleasant, easy silence settled between them, he thought of his own bed. He too noticed an abundance of space there, except he didn’t sleep like a starfish and, in a truth he’d be damned to admit to anyone, he hated the emptiness. He longed for someone to fill that space; someone he could reach to in the middle of the night and someone he’d wake up to in the morning. Someone like Sansa. 

Only momentarily did he consider telling her any of this. If he did, the tidbit would ultimately become a launching point for all his other confessions. Those demanded deliberate delicacy, something he wasn’t likely to accomplish by tacking his feelings onto the end of a conversation about their beds. 

Sansa shoved fries into her mouth one at a time and chewed slowly, but she kept looking at him from across the table. Somehow she’d picked up on his vexation and appeared poised to ask what troubled him.

At the same moment, the Brawny paper towel man burst through the threshold separating the dining room from the bar. A guy dressed as the Little Mermaid – a stuffed purple shell bra covering his pecks, shimmery green tail, and a long red wig – followed closely behind. The distraction proved timely and Sansa immediately swiveled in her seat to catch a glimpse of their costumes.

They spent the rest of their meal people watching as the dining room steadily filled with late arrivals. Sansa commented on the various costumes, judging the creativity and execution, and giving her marks accordingly. Sandor offered his cynical two cents, which invariably left Sansa in a fit of giggles.

The sincerity of her laughter never ceased to instill both pride and pleasant surprise in him. Sandor wasn’t famed for his humor and no one ever raved about his ability to make people laugh, but Sansa seemed to always find humor in the things he said, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny.

Her last round of giggles waned and she sighed heavily while sinking back in her seat. She looked at him from across the table with a contemplative smile – content and curious as her eyes settled on him.

“I’m so happy you came.” The volume of the room nearly drowned out her words spoken soft and sweet. Fixated on her lips, he’d heard just fine.

Sandor pushed his plate to the edge of the table and threw his napkin on top of it. He leaned forward in the booth, arms resting on top of the table and his chest pressed against the edge.

“I’m happy I came too.” His hands fidgeted, occupied only by the plastic sword that’d speared through the cherries in his Manhattan. He prodded the tip of the sword against the pad of his thumb. “I missed talking to you at work.”

It only occurred to him now he hadn’t told Sansa this, even after she mustered the courage to wander into his office and offer him a truce as well as a confession along the same lines. 

“Me too.” Sansa beamed with a widening smile. Her chest rose and fell with a quickened rhythm, obvious enough that Sandor noticed. He also noticed her cheeks darkening with a blush.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he started, pining away for a whiskey on the rocks now to grease the skids of this conversation. The buzz of the room waned as conversations at other tables simultaneously ended. The room donned its coziness once more and a semblance of privacy too.

“I’m listening,” Sansa encouraged.

She shook, not violently, but in a slow tremble and she crossed her arms over her middle, clinging to her self and obscuring the visible manifestation of her nervousness. _She knows what’s coming._

With dreamy chords and heavy reverb, the subdued sound of a guitar wafted through the speakers in the room. The music wasn’t offensive or even loud, but it distracted nonetheless and now more people filed in, whooping with laughter and hollering to their friends.

Two men had also entered the room, their presence stirring up more conversation as the occupants at every other table vied for their attention. The pair stopped at a few tables, but only briefly and only long enough to say hello because they were clearly heading straight for where Sansa and Sandor sat.

The duo approached the table hand-in-hand with tandem footsteps, their gaits matching along with their smiles. Their Victorian-style suits, replete with waistcoats and top hats, also matched, except in color. The one with a head of blond curls falling into round blue eyes was dressed in white. His counterpart with dark hair and a closely trimmed beard dressed in black.

“Miss Sansa Stark!” No sooner had he reached the table, the blond immediately threw his arms around Sansa and squeezed her into tight hug. “You look precious, darling,” he cooed and poked at the whiskers on her cheek.

“Loras, Renly – hi!” Sansa shot up from the booth and hurried over to the dark haired man. Rolling up on her toes slightly, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Guys, this is my friend and boss Sandor.” Sansa turned and presented Sandor like Vanna White would a vowel – with delicate grace, hands bent at wrist and held out in front of him.

The blond introduced himself as Loras and offered Sandor a firm handshake. The other – Renly – greeted Sandor with a polite smile, but stared curiously, his gaze loitering as Sansa returned to her seat.

“Loras is Margaery’s brother and Renly is his fiancé,” she explained and turned to Loras. She tapped the empty space next to her.  

“Oh, honey, it’s fine! We just came over to say hello.” Loras declined with a flick of his wrist. 

“Yeah, we didn’t mean to interrupt,” Renly continued and occupied Loras’ hand with his own once more. “We just kept hearing about this sad little kitty cat wallflowering in the dart room and I refused to believe it was you. I’m so happy to see someone saved you from that sorry state of affairs.”

Renly quirked one eyebrow at Sandor and intrigue seemed to bloom across his countenance, dislodging a bit of his reserve. 

“At some point, I expect to see you on the dance floor shaking that little ass of yours.” Loras feigned his lecture to Sansa with one hand resting on his hip, which jutted out to one side as he spoke.

“You got it,” Sansa agreed shyly and with a laugh. “What are your costumes supposed to be?”

The two men turned to one another in simultaneous motion. 

“Dr. Jekyll,” Loras responded.

“Mr. Hyde,” Renly added in turn.

“Aww! It’s perfect.” Sansa’s hand covered her heart and she tilted her head to the side in adoration of the two.

“Hey, Renly had the hilarious idea of playing pool.” Loras nudged his fiancé with his elbow and his eyes danced between Sansa and Sandor. “You two should join us. We’ll play on teams.”

Sansa turned to Sandor with her features faintly pleading – a hesitant smile and hopeful eyes.

“What do you think?” she urged.

All eyes around the table landed on Sandor. He hadn’t contemplated telling her no, but knew a bit of his disappointment surfaced. The timing couldn’t have been any worse. Renly shifted gently from side-to-side and Loras pouted his bottom lip at Sandor.

“Sure,” Sandor nodded and forced his smile.

Sansa clapped her hands together and Loras joined in. She bounced from the booth and Loras tossed his arm around her shoulders.  

“So you’re her boss? The one who owns his own business?” Renly asked Sandor as Loras and Sansa veritably skipped from the room in a beeline for the pool tables.

“Yeah,” Sandor nodded stoically and dug into his pocket for a ten to throw down on the table as a tip. Renly seemed to regard this action with quiet approval. “I started the business after I left the Army.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a military man,” Renly commented, seemingly knowing quite a bit more about Sandor than Sandor did him. He couldn’t recall Sansa ever mentioning Loras or Renly. If she had, it’d been only sparingly and not in any memorable kind of way.

“Loras was in the Navy when I first met him,” Renly continued as he and Sandor ambled towards the pool tables. Loras had already perched himself at the edge of a green felted table and mimicked Jennifer Beals' infamous pose from _Flashdance –_ back arched and head thrown back while Sansa burst into laughter at him.

“Navy, huh? That’s…uh…not entirely surprising,” Sandor chuckled. Finding amusement in the statement, Renly exhaled a laugh as well.

“I was actually engaged to Margery when I met him, but still deep in the closet,” Renly confessed. “Of course, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ prevented Loras from being, well, Loras, at least while he was in the service.” 

Sandor nodded, not entirely certain what, if anything, he should say in response. Renly hadn’t left much room for anything other than perhaps shock that he’d once been engaged to a woman, Loras’ sister no less. Sandor didn’t give a shit about that. Instead, he wondered why Renly felt the need to divulge this information; his words, the cadence of his voice, and the way he stopped short of where Loras and Sansa might hear, all suggested he wasn’t just being generous in fielding the burden of introductory conversation.

“Joffrey is my nephew.” He turned and steadied his gaze on Sandor, a move that forced his neck to crane given he wasn’t a particularly tall man. “I don’t know if you know that.”

“Your nephew–” Sandor started. He had more than a few things to say about Joffrey, but his words were swiftly interrupted.

“My nephew is an asshole. I know it. My brother – his father – knows it. His mother coddles him, but even she knows it. The whole goddamn family knows it.”

The conversation had taken on the air of an excessive prelude to whatever it was Renly really meant to say.

“I don’t mean to be a dick, but what exactly are you getting at?” Sandor pressed.

“Sansa’s like a little sister to Loras and I. She’s got no buffer out here, you know? No emotional airbag to fall into when Joff gets into one of his moods. I’m just protective of her and you –”

Sandor paid Renly the same courtesy by snipping the man’s words in mid-sentence.

“I’m not the one you should be concerned about or having this conversation with. I get it. You care about her and don’t know me from Adam, but I care about her too. You’re in a position to talk some sense into your piece of shit nephew. I suggest you do it before I beat that sense into him.”

Sandor finished in a soured huff, only vaguely aware, but mostly disinterested in the fact that he may have crossed a line. Renly’s face remained impassible for many moments until his lips finally broke into a thin smile.

“Not bad,” he appraised with a nod. “I like you.” With that, he cantered off towards the pool tables tucked away in the far corner of the main room. The area was mostly enclosed or otherwise obscured by the crowd, but offered a good vantage point of the bar and the rest of room.

Loras looped his arms around Renly’s middle when he approached and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Sansa perched against the wall next to a high-topped table missing its stools.

“What’d you two talk about?” she asked when Sandor approached, but failed at willing any sort of disinterest into her words.

“Nothing much,” Sandor shrugged and tossed his jacket onto the table. “Just guy stuff.”

“I want to be stripes!” Loras declared and rolled the balls onto the table two at a time. “They’re cuter.”

“Stripes it is, my love.” Renly retrieved the triangular rack and placed it on the table.

“Sorry if either of them are a bit too much,” Sansa’s apology manifested on a quiet laugh.

“No, they’re cool,” Sandor assured. He stood next to her with his back against the wall. “I like them.”

Loras had set about placing the balls the in the rack. Renly stood behind him, his chin resting on Loras’ shoulder while he instructed where to put each ball and pecking his fiance’s cheek every so often.

At once, Sandor became aware of how close Sansa was to him. He felt her arm brush against his and she swayed lightly, each movement causing her to subtly bump into him. The urge to touch her – to pull her close and breathe her in – felt like the most natural thing in the world; the denial of that urge rested awkwardly between them only to be further inflamed by Loras and Renly’s affections towards one another. 

While Loras was in raptures at the attention being lavished on him, Renly seemed suddenly mindful of their public display. He pressed one last kiss to Loras’ cheek – a demure peck – and turned towards Sansa and Sandor.

“I’ll get us a round of beers. Go ahead and start without me,” he instructed and headed off towards the bar. A crowd, now five people deep, had formed there and Renly took his place at the end of the line.

Loras started the game with a shot that sent a solid orange ball spinning towards the right pocket. He didn’t bother to watch where it ended up and turned away just as it stopped a few inches short of falling in.

“Oh well,” he shrugged after looking back at the table. He happily surrendered the cue to Sandor before taking a spot next to Sansa against the wall.

“You wanna go first?” Sandor held out the stick to Sansa.  She contemplated it momentarily, but shook her head.

“No. You go,” she urged.

Sandor rolled up his sleeves and studied the pattern of the balls on the table. Loras had done a piss-poor job breaking the rack. A cluster of balls still remained in the center, undisturbed and complicating any shot Sandor might take. He zeroed in on a purple ball that he could reasonably sink in the corner left pocket.

Bent over at the edge of the table, Sandor stared down the line of the cue with one eye closed and the tip of his tongue tracing his bottom lip. 

“Sweetie, this one. Mmm!” Loras commented with no motions towards discretion. Though he’d leaned in close to Sansa, Sandor heard every word just fine. “Love me some tattoos with a side of tall, dark, and handsome.”

Sandor held his position, but slowly swiveled his head towards the interruption. Thoroughly mortified, Sansa cradled her forehead in the palm of her hand.

“Honey, you know its true!” Loras hollered at Sandor. “You know you look fine. Don’t even try to act like you’re up in here with your muscles and your hair not lookin’ fine.”

Sandor rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the table to take his shot. The purple ball whizzed with a curve across the table and landed in the corner left pocket, just as he’d hoped. Sansa clapped for him and pushed herself from the wall for her turn.

“Go show him how you work that stick, girl!” Loras cheered with his hands cupped around his mouth, as if Sansa might not hear him screaming from the sidelines otherwise.

She took the cue from Sandor and approached the table uncertainly. With her hands wrapped around the stick, she contemplated the pattern of balls, but turned to Sandor for guidance.

“Try to get the blue one in the left side pocket,” he instructed. 

“Here?” Sansa pointed at the pocket closest to her, coincidentally the wrong one. Loras’ head bobbed towards Sandor.

“Go show her what to do with those balls,” he encouraged deviously, but spoke much quieter than he had before. “Someone’s got to. Lord Jesus knows Joffrey probably isn’t,” he added beneath his breath.

Ignoring the comment about Joffrey, Sandor pushed himself from the wall and approached the table.

“This one.” He tapped the side pocket and took the cue from Sansa’s hands. Gauging the best spot, he took his place at the table’s edge and bent over with the cue’s tip lightly touching the ball.

“Hold it like this.” He rotated his head to look at Sansa. She nodded and her brows furrowed with concentration. “Try to hit the cue ball right where the end of the stick is right now. Not quite in the middle, but towards the bottom.”

Sandor stood up and held the stick out to Sansa once more. Her fingers curled around it and she smiled up at him.

“You’ve got this,” he told her and returned to the wall again.  

He watched as Sansa leaned over the edge of the table. She held the cue just like he showed her and the end of it hit the ball hard, but in the wrong spot. The ball became airborne, bounced on the table, and careened to the floor where it landed with a thud. 

“Don’t worry. She’s got more talents, baby,” Loras assured and patted Sandor on the shoulder. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Sansa collapsed to the table and buried her face in the crook of her arm.  Her back sharply rose and fell with muffled laughter. Chuckling along with her, Sandor circled the pool table and retrieved the cue ball from the floor.

He returned it to the table with a wide grin plastered on his lips and some teasing remark on the tip of his tongue. Red in the cheeks from laughing, Sansa stood up, but her eyes landed across the room and her smile immediately faded. She wasn’t laughing anymore. She stared at some commotion that’d broken out on the other side of the bar with the same wide-eyed fright as a deer caught in headlights. Her face suddenly paled, all the color draining from her cheeks.

The din of the room fell away, but the laughter and hollering picked up from another source. Sandor turned around just in time to see an entourage of individuals file through the front door, one right after another, but none of them were dressed in costumes. All of them looked as though they’d dressed for one of the upscale downtown clubs. Sandor quickly noticed another disparity – the females of the group outnumbered the guys by at least two to one. One particular individual led the way into the room with a girl clinging to either arm – a blonde on the left and a brunette on the right.

Taller than average, but shorter than Sandor, the guy walked with an overt swagger and already looked bored as he scanned the room. Long strands of thick blond hair were slicked back on top of his head, but trimmed close at the sides. He’d paired tight black pants with a matching blazer and, while he may’ve otherwise looked presentable and put together, he didn’t wear a shirt beneath the blazer. Strings of silver necklaces covered over his bare chest along with shitty and incomplete tattoo work.

 _He looks like Justin Bieber,_ Sandor mused and would’ve smiled at his own observation, but sudden understanding dawned on him.

Joffrey.

Renly abandoned his place in line at the bar and quickly returned to the pool table. Sandor turned to Sansa who’d froze, all except the obvious tremors that worked through her body. Her chest heaved and the tears clinging to her eyes would break free at any moment. In a few quick paces, Sandor put himself between Sansa and the scene playing out near the bar. She pressed herself against his back and Sandor reached around, coiling his fingers gently around her arm.

“Oh _God!_ The bitch boy is here,” Loras complained to Renly, his shoulders slumping in dramatic fashion. “Look at my sister! That little hoe!”

Across the room, Margaery nearly flew into Joffrey’s arms. She hugged him soundly and kissed both of his cheeks. Joffrey leaned in and said something to her, probably a compliment on her costume because Margaery twirled in place for him. With her whip still in hand, she gently lashed the leather ends against his obnoxiously bejeweled chest.

“What did I say about her and that goddamn whip?” Loras turned to Renly with his lips drawn into an indignant scowl. “I said, ‘That girl is gonna go buck wild when she gets a whip in her hands.’ She’s in here swinging that damn thing around with her flat little ass cheeks hanging out!”                     

Sandor felt Sansa’s fingers grip the fabric of his sweater. He could shield her from Joffrey, but he couldn’t stop her from finally seeing Joffrey’s warm reception. He felt her pull away from him slightly and she peeked her head around to watch Margaery continue to lavish attention on him.

“Do you want to go outside?” Sandor asked and looked down towards hers. Her eyes – filled to the brim with so much hurt – were fixated across the room still, but she nodded anyhow.

“Go on,” Renly told Sandor and motioned his head towards the dart room behind them. “I’ll take care of this and get him out of here.”

Loras approached Sansa and caressed one hand down the length of her hair.

“You go with your man lovins, honey.” He took Sansa by the wrist and placed her hand in Sandor’s. “He’ll take care of you.”

With no further encouragement from Loras, Sansa’s fingers slipped between Sandor’s and she gripped his hand as tightly as she’d clung to the back of his sweater.

“Let’s go.” With a light tug, Sandor started towards the dart room. As he passed the high-topped table, he scooped up his jacket and Sansa’s purse in one swoop of his arm. In the next room, he nudged between crowds of people with Sansa following close behind. The further they went, the tighter she held onto his hand. A glowing red exit sign functioned as a beacon and Sandor carved a path towards the doorway below the sign.

It opened to the back of the restaurant and a pot-holed parking lot stinking of garbage greeted them on the other side. Sansa let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around her middle. The night had grown significantly colder and the cars parked behind the building were coated in a thin layer of frost.

Sansa sat on the concrete tire stop at the head of an empty parking space and pulled herself into a ball – legs pressed tight against her chest and her chin tucked into the space between her knees. She stared vacantly towards the shadowed alley beyond the lot and smiled faintly when Sandor draped his jacket across her shoulders. The jacket swallowed her up, even as she pulled the front of it closed across her.

Sandor took a seat next to her, but they didn’t speak. He turned his head to the sky, even though he knew damn well the city lights blotted out the stars. The clouds still rolled across the moon riding towards full height.

“I swear I didn’t know he was coming.” Sansa’s fragile voice came when he least expected it, after many long minutes of silence, but her declaration – weak though it was – didn’t need to be said. He already assumed as much.

“I know you didn’t. It’s alright,” he assured and shifted against the cold, concrete slab. Bits of gravel crunched softly beneath his feet with his movements.

“God! He ruins everything!” Sansa shouted with sudden force. She cradled her forehead in the palm of her hand and closed her eyes.  

“Do you want to leave?” Sandor asked. He stared at her, despite the fact she hadn’t opened her eyes yet. If she had, perhaps she’d see that he wanted to go – not alone, but with her. They’d had fun together and he’d met some of her friends, but Sandor had been to enough parties in his life to intuit when it was best to call it night. At some point, the fun would stop and the shit-faced drama would ensue. It seemed they’d swiftly reached that threshold with Joffrey’s unexpected arrival.

“No,” she shook her head adamantly and sat up straight. Sandor’s jacket fell from her shoulders and gathered at the small of her back. “I was here first. He can leave,” she added with tepid haughtiness; not unjustified, to be sure, and yet Sandor felt himself catching some of the peripheral coldness. 

He was caught in the riptide of her bitter battle with Joffrey – the surging ebb and flow of their final shots at one another. At once, the tables had been turned and Sandor recognized the awkward familiarity of this situation. The only thing missing was a wine-stained tablecloth and the heat between them that’d erupted into a back-alley brawl. At least then there’d been passion and burning desires neither seemed to know how to control with one another. Now, everything had gone frigid.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered and looked at him. “If you want to leave, I understand.”

Sandor chewed his bottom lip. She’d given him a tempting out, a reason to bail, but she watched him eagerly. Every second of contemplative silence on his end ushered forth disappointment written all over his face.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll stay, if you do.”

With all the warmth in the world returning, she smiled at him and tentatively scooted across the concrete slab until her arm pressed against his. She placed her head on his shoulder and her fingers picked at a loose thread on his pant leg, right near the bend of his knee. 

Sandor picked up his jacket and placed it back to where it had been. When he did, he allowed his arm to drape across her shoulders. Instinctively, Sansa burrowed into him with her cheek against the side of his chest.

“You’re warm,” she all but hummed with content and rested her arm on his leg. She sighed into him and he could feel the tension in her shoulders ease away.

On their own accord, his fingers worked through the ends of her hair. The strands – silken and as soft as he always imagined – twirled around his fingers before being loosed. He did this repeatedly and, with each cycle, Sansa responded by melting further into him, as if she couldn’t get close enough. In a similar show of subtle affection, Sansa’s fingers traced the tattoos of his forearm that rested on the top of his leg. 

They stayed wrapped up in one another for what felt like an eternity. With each passing eon, Sandor’s heart thrummed harder in his chest and the stiffness in Sansa’s shoulders returned, but with different cause. He had every intention of kissing her now and she seemed to know. All he needed to do was look down at her and she’d follow his lead, craning her neck to look up at him, and he’d claim what he so badly wanted – her mouth against his and a taste of her lips.

Sandor’s hand slipped to the small of her back and he turned ever so slightly towards her, enough that Sansa stirred in his arms and she shifted towards him as well. His other hand rested on her thigh at the border of her skirt and the tights she wore underneath. His eyes drifted to her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that showcased the tantalizing swell of her cleavage. Engrossed by this, he hadn’t quite realized that the hem of her skirt had risen up her thighs with her movements towards him and his hand had followed.

“Sorry.” Propriety by proxy bid him to say it. He wasn’t sorry, not if Sansa wasn’t. And she wasn’t.

More than anything, she appeared intrigued by this whole situation – how they’d covered so much ground in such a minuscule amount of time. Then again, if they were talking time, this newfound affection that they so easily embraced was long overdue.

“It’s okay,” she whispered with wide-eyes and her tongue quickly swiping her bottom lip.

In the span of a few moments, the tender anticipation of a simple kiss quickly spiraled into more eager touches, his fingers gripping her thigh beneath her skirt, dangerously close to the junction between her legs, and her knees falling apart in erotic expectation of his inadvertent brazenness.

The door behind them opened with a long, metallic groan, easing slowly on its hinges as Renly poked his head through the small gap of space he’d created.

Sansa immediately sat up straight, loosening Sandor’s arm from her shoulders and her cheeks flamed red. Sandor discreetly pulled his hand from beneath her skirt, but Renly must’ve seen the compromising position they’d been in.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! I’m not looking!“ he insisted with his eyes squeezed shut. “He’s gone. Loras went off on him. Sansa, Margaery wants to talk to you. Take your time, though.” 

Renly didn’t wait for a response, but rather stepped back from the door, which shut behind him. Sansa pulled the hem of her skirt down back to mid-thigh and took a deep breath.

“Are you good to go back?” Sandor ventured and stood from the concrete slab. The cold seeped back into his skin where the heat began to dissipate.

When Sansa nodded, Sandor held out his hand to her, which she took graciously. Gripping onto him for purchase, she pulled herself from the ground, taking his jacket and her purse with her as she went.

“I need another drink,” she said, possibly to herself because the declaration came on a murmur. Sansa shook out his jacket, which released a few stray bits of gravel, and handed it to him with a coy smile.

Back inside, another drink turned into a double vodka on the rocks, which Sansa eagerly sucked down while Margaery pleaded with her. The Tyrell girl’s arms waved animatedly in the air, but Sansa kept her poise and tended to her drink, which remained close to her lips at all times.

Sandor watched from across the bar, not knowing what was being said, but could see plain as day that Sansa was merely being polite in listening. She didn’t appear to have much to say and that reticence sent Margaery into overdrive to repair their tattered friendship.

Renly occupied Sandor with discussion on World War II history – a topic the man seemed to know quite a bit about, although Sandor wasn’t particularly interested. In a different situation, he would’ve delved into the intricacies of war, likely revealing his colors as someone who missed his time in the service. All he was left with were war stories not nearly as interesting as those from his grandfather’s time in the Pacific theater.

Much like Sansa, Sandor sipped on a beer and humored Renly, throwing the guy a bone every now and then by asking a question or prompting more conversation. Loras complained intermittently and, despite his best efforts to change the subject, eventually quieted and took to dancing in his seat, bobbing to and fro to the music.

At some point during Renly’s discussion of the Battle of the Bulge, Sandor watched as Sansa unceremoniously rose from her seat with Margaery looking none too pleased at being cut off. Sansa immediately shoved her way to the front of the bar and ordered another drink, a clear liquid on the rocks, probably another double vodka.

She swayed her way back to Sandor in steps that appeared to take some effort on her part, one foot put in front of the other with diminished grace. Her gait wobbled ever so slightly.

Jumping at the opportunity to bow out of the war discussion, Loras bounded from his chair and grabbed Sansa by the shoulders. He begged her to save him from guy talk and insisted she join him on the dance floor. Sansa clapped her hands together at that, jumping in place along with Loras, who did the same with shrill squeals sounding from his lips. 

Loras took her drink and grabbed her freed hand. He veritably dragged her towards the stairs that led to the duck room. Before she’d gotten too far, Sansa turned her head over her shoulder to Sandor.

“Come downstairs when you’re done!” She flashed a dazzling smile in his direction; one that overtly adored and lingered even as Loras continued to tug her along. When the two of them disappeared down the stairs, Renly turned to Sandor.

“Despite everything that’s happened, tonight is the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time,” he commented – both somber and fond, a strange combination that preceded a silence fraught with heaviness. Renly stared into the empty remains of his beer glass. “She deserves to be happy.”

“Yes, she does,” Sandor concurred with a nod. His cup was empty too, something both he and Renly noticed.

“Want another?” Renly asked and pointed to Sandor’s glass.

“No, thanks. I’m good. I think I’ll head downstairs.” Sandor stood from his seat and pushed the chair back towards the table.  

“I’ll go with you.” Renly mirrored Sandor’s movements. “It’s usually a good idea to keep an eye on Loras,” he added with a laugh.

The two of them headed across the room and towards the stairs. Renly tried to continue their conversation, but music quickly drowned out his voice with each descended step towards the duck room. Sandor only caught every other word over the booming sound of base and eventually Renly quit trying altogether.

The downstairs seemed to have absorbed most of the party goers, which now flooded the dance floor that comprised most of the room; all except the bar situated at the back and a stage up front where a DJ had set up his equipment.

Renly scooted across the far wall, paving a path towards the bar. He and Sandor occupied the last two stools and settled in just as the bartender came to take Renly’s drink order. From floor to ceiling, the walls of the place throbbed with each driving beat and polychrome lights flashed across the dance floor. Sandor caught sight of Sansa’s cat ears. Her body moved in a coordinated sway to the music and she appeared steadier on her feet, but sipped from a glass with a pastel pink concoction in it.

In between sips, she cheered on Loras, who’d climbed up onto the stage and commenced with elaborate free motions that mostly consisted of excessive rolling and popping of his hips. He combined these movements with hip thrusts and the flats of his hands miming boxes around his face with precision Madonna would be proud of. His countenance maintained fierce concentration while his shoulders deftly rolled in opposition motion of his hips.

In the midst of her own dancing, Sansa bumped into someone dressed as a schoolgirl and spilled her drink down the woman’s bare midriff to which she apologized profusely through a fit of laughter. The schoolgirl smiled tersely, but left the dance floor. With her glass now empty, Sansa pushed her way through the crowd of people and towards the bar. 

Her eyes locked onto Sandor and dashed towards him, nearly careening into him. He caught her by the hips with his hands to slow her forward momentum. Sansa draped her arms over his shoulders and stood between his legs. A broad smile beamed across her lips when she gazed down at his hands gripping her hips. She moved closer to him, her mouth hovering over his ear.

“Will you dance with me?” she asked with her breasts pressing against his chest. 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Sandor said over the music. “Besides, I think I like watching better.”

“So you’ve been watching me dance?” Sansa’s eyebrows lifted at him and she swiveled gently between his legs, turning ever so slightly from side to side while Sandor’s hands remained on her hips.

“Maybe.” His lips curled into a grin. Sansa’s arms slipped from his shoulders until her hands rested against his chest. She stepped closer to him, hovering within a few inches when she leaned towards him.

“Good. I’ve always liked it when you watch me,” she sighed softly into his ear – tremulous and timid to admit, even despite her emergent drunkenness. She pulled away to stare at him with a look of trepidation on her face, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to tell her that she was being ridiculous.

Sandor’s palm ran up her arm and he pushed the hair off of her shoulder to reveal her neck. He leaned forward, pulling her into him as he did so that she was once more flush against him.

“I know you do,” his voice quietly rumbled into her ear and she seemed to shudder against him. Sandor settled back against the bar with his elbow resting on the edge and Sansa bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile.

“I spilled my drink,” she said, almost an admission, but she surely knew that he saw. “I need another.” She stepped out from between his legs and pushed herself up against the bar.

“You want some water?” Sandor asked in a subtle suggestion that seemed to soar over her head, which adamantly shook with a “no”.

“Another…whatever it’s called…” Sansa ordered when she caught the bartender’s attention 

“Fairy blood?” the bartender asked while measuring out a shot of tequila for someone at the other end of the bar.

“Yes, fairy blood!” Sansa shouted over the music, which had eased into another song, bass bumping loudly. Sandor glared at the bartender making her drink – cranberry and grapefruit juice topped with copious amounts of vodka in a sugar-rimmed glass and garnished with a slice of lime. The bartender handed the drink to Sansa, who thanked him. She took a long sip of her drink, wincing slightly at the taste of alcohol poorly masked by the fruit juices.

“Okay, I’m going back out,” she announced and blindsided him when she pressed her lips softly to his cheek.

She bolted off towards the dance floor, but curiosity seemed to force gaze back to him. On the outskirts of the dance floor, she turned around to look at him. Reeling from such a simple gesture, Sandor grinned wildly.

“What was that?” he mouthed at her.

Smiling at him, Sansa gave a small shrug and disappeared into the swarming sea of bodies. Regaining himself, Sandor swiveled in his seat towards the bartender.

“Hey man,” he nearly barked.

With a towel thrown over his shoulder, the man popped off the caps of two Bud lights and lifted his eyes to Sandor.

“Need a drink?”

“No, I need you to cut the redhead off,” Sandor commanded with a pointed stare. The bartender nodded.

“Sure thing,” he agreed before hurrying to the other end of the bar and taking more drink orders.

Turning around, Sandor leaned forward in the stool and rested his elbows on his knees. After a few songs, the music changed tone – no longer top forty bullshit with derivative beats and obnoxious lyrics. Slower and more deliberate rhythms took over accompanied by a delicate female voice from an artist Sandor had never heard before, but Sansa seemed quite familiar with. She’d already downed a significant portion of her drink and set the near-empty glass on the edge of the stage.

The dance floor thinned. The lights dimmed and slowed to match the tempo of music now drifting through the speakers. Sansa effortlessly eased into the music. Bathed in blue and green light, she swayed and drifted.   

She was a shy little thing, but that didn’t stop her from locking eyes with him from across the dance floor. Her hips rolled slowly and she lifted her hair from her shoulders, piling it up on her head with both hands so that he had full view of her. Her dress lifted up her thighs until it just covered her ass, which swiveled in fluid motion.

He tried not to stare, but wasn’t that the point? She wanted his eyes on her, watching the way she moved, rocking her hips the same way she might if she were naked and straddling him. She’d probably hold her hair up like that too, offering him a delicious view of her gorgeous tits bouncing as she rode his length and moaned how good he felt inside of her.

She danced and he watched with one hand cupping his chin, fingers scratching at his beard. Sansa released her hair, letting it cascade down her back, and let her gaze drift over her shoulder, as if to make sure he was still watching. When her eyes met his, she smiled – sweet and unassuming, as if she hadn’t been moving that way just for him, with full knowledge that he was devouring the sight of her and imagining all sorts of other scenarios where she’d move like that just for him. He realized then that part of her shyness was for show, the manifestation of a want to be told what to do, to willfully submit to him, to play her part in hopes that he would play his.

The song ended and the dance floor filled again. Sandor lost sight of Sansa, but Loras had returned to the dance floor. When the crowd parted slightly, Sandor saw Loras had given Sansa another one of those pink drinks, which she sipped on eagerly. Her coordination took a nosedive from there. All the alcohol coursing through her system had left her legs wobbly and her movements limited to subtle sways lest she go straight to the floor.

 _Fuck._ Sandor rubbed one hand over his face and scanned the bar for Renly or anyone else that could corral Loras from the dance floor and talk some sense into him. 

Sansa no longer danced, but doubled over in a fit of laughter as Loras grinded on her with his characteristic hip thrusts. By all-appearances, they owned the dance floor as others cleared away to the periphery to avoid the drink sloshing from Sansa’s glass.

“She’s so drunk. I’ve never seen her like this.” Margaery appeared next to Sandor. He hadn’t noticed her at first, but her perfume – still persistent hours later – gave her away. Sandor rose from the stool and towered over Margaery who stood next to him.

“Tell your brother to quit giving her drinks.” Sandor crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “How is she getting home?”

Margaery brought both hands to her hips. She’d taken off her waistcoat and now paraded around in just her corset and gold shorts.

“Well, that’s the thing,” she sighed and swept a glance towards him. “I brought her here and Joffrey was supposed to take her home.”

“Joffrey?” Sandor repeated with force. He felt his mouth contort into a scowl when he turned towards Margaery. She appeared somewhat pleased with his reaction – her lips curled into a ghost of smile and she gave a soft nod of the head.

“Yes. Joffrey.” She held Sandor’s stare – undaunted and her smile broadening.

“Don’t tell me you thought they’re breaking up?” Though posed as a question, she didn’t expect an answer and Sandor had no intention of giving her one. He steadied his eyes to the dance floor where Sansa looked near breathless from laughter.

“Oh, honey, no,” Margaery continued when she followed his gaze. “They do this shit all the time. I swear it’s a form of foreplay for them. He’s a prick, she threatens to leave him, he begs her not to, tells her everything she wants to hear, she stays, he treats her like a goddamn princess for a few weeks, and then he’s back to being a prick. You’ll see.”

Sandor shook his head, to which Margaery feigned sympathetic concern. Her brows furrowed above eyes that sparkled with deviant delight. What she didn’t realize was that the only person with a woefully misguided understanding of Sansa was _her_. Everything Margaery presumed to know about Sansa was based on her own distorted views – a filter that mistook Sansa to be weak and hopelessly malleable to manipulation.

“She’s moving out. That doesn’t fit the cycle, does it?” Sandor countered.

Margaery paused before answering and studied Sansa on the dance floor.

“She won’t actually go through with it,” Margaery replied plainly. Her smile, fake to begin with, had disappeared and irritation grew in its place. She frowned now and her eyes flittered back to Sandor. “She’ll throw a few things into boxes to make a point and wait for Joffrey to come around. It’s for show, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” Over the music, the rumble of Sandor’s words crescendoed in volume and anger fueled his scathing tone. “And if we’re offering unsolicited opinions, I think you need to support her when she’s doing her best to get out of a bad situation.”

The fear and intimidation that might’ve surfaced in Margaery quickly fell away. She laughed – soft at first and then in a condescending giggle.

“Sansa is never going to leave him,” she declared through one of her fabricated smiles. “You’re a distraction. A notional novelty. She’ll let you fuck her a few times and tell you you’re all that she wants, but she’ll run right back to him the second Joffrey starts paying attention to her again.”

“Is that why you invited him?” Sandor fired back, ignoring the heavy-handed insult she’d just paid both him and Sansa.

The piano intro of a familiar song blared through the speakers and Sandor recognized the tune immediately. His mother used to play it repeatedly on their old record player.

The dance floor cleared out at the sound of Dolly Parton’s voice, but Sansa remained, one hand over her heart and Sandor could hear her shout out that she loved this song.

“Joffrey is a friend of mine,” Margaery informed with an unapologetic shrug. “I’ve known his family since I was a little girl. It would’ve been rude not to invite him.”

Disgusted, Sandor shook his head and glowered at the girl. In the background, he could hear Sansa drunkenly singing the lyrics of the song.

“Here you come again! Just when I’ve begun to get myself together! You waltz right in the door, just like you’ve done before, and wrap my heart around your little finger!”

“Guess you didn’t see his handiwork on her arms, huh?” Sandor forced through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. 

The bruises must’ve already faded by now, but Sansa certainly had a knack for covering over all the unpleasant facets of her relationship. If she stayed with Joff, more bruises – physical and otherwise – would come in time. Maybe they already had. Margaery was likely to know more about that than Sandor, but the girl merely rolled her eyes at his concern.

“Oh god, it’s not that bad!” she insisted. “You should see my arms after a night of rough sex,” she added with a smirk. 

Not much shocked Sandor anymore. He’d seen and heard it all, or so he thought, but words failed him now. He shook his head at Margaery.

“You’re a real piece of work,” he grumbled and started for the dance floor, but Margaery’s hand gripped tightly around his bicep and she tried to yank him back.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He pulled his arm from Margaery’s grasp. “I’m taking her home.”

He headed towards the dance floor and hadn’t taken more than one large stride before he heard Margaery speak again – insistent, but less certain of herself.

“Joff-” she started, but stopped when Sandor spun around towards her.

“Joffrey can go fuck himself!” The words hurtled from his mouth, loud enough that Loras seemed to hear from the dance floor. His hip thrusts immediately stopped and he rushed towards them in a panic. “You can go fuck yourself. Shit, go fuck each other. I don’t care, but don’t drag Sansa into your manipulative bullshit.”

Blithely unaware of what’d happened or the fact that Loras had left her side, Sansa continued to twirl in the middle of a mostly empty dance floor and sang to herself.

Sandor headed towards her and passed Loras along the way. He asked what’d happened, but Sandor shook his head and ignored the question as he continued to the middle of the dance floor.

“All you gotta do is smile that smile and there go all my defenses!” Sansa sang and spun in place. With her eyes closed, she smiled to herself and tilted her head back as the lights danced across her face. 

“Here you come again! Looking better than anybody has a right to!” She opened her eyes, which landed on Sandor just as he reached her. “Will you dance with me?” she asked. Her swaying stopped and she stood in front of him, staring up at him expectantly. “Please. I love this song,” she added.

Sandor nodded and held out his hand to her. She placed her palm on his and curled her fingers around his hand as he pulled her towards him. She tucked herself against his chest, her forearms pulled tight against herself and her head resting right where his heart beat loudly. An angry rush still pumped through his veins. He wrapped his arms around the small of her back and they rocked with one another, back and forth in matching rhythm that was distinctly slower than the remaining bars of the Dolly Parton song.

“I’m going to take you home,” he told her when the song ended and a brief silence encapsulated the room.

Sansa tilted her head up towards him and shot him a scandalized look, though she couldn’t keep a straight face. Her lips burst into a bright smile.

“Sandor! How presumptuous of you!”

A laugh rumbled from deep within his chest and he shook his head at her.

“ _Your_ home. Not mine, crazy.”

Another song came on, the first slow song of the evening. A melancholic and bluesy female voice echoed around the room along with a dark melody. 

Sansa continued to look up at him with her chin pressed against his chest. He brushed the hair from her face, his knuckles sweeping tenderly against her cheek.

“You’re drunk. You’ve had too much of that pink shit.”

“ _You’ve_ had too much of that…” she countered defiantly, but lost her words on a subtle slur. “Of that…whatever that shit was I was drinking! I don’t even know colors right now. I can’t even see rainbows!”

She slumped further into him and giggled at her own nonsensical declarations.

“Yes, you can. You love rainbows.” Sandor laughed along with her and loosened his grip when he felt her pull away slightly. Sansa stood upright now, still encircled within his arms and swaying, but a sudden solemnity overcame her and she no longer laughed.

“I don’t know what I love anymore.” She lowered her eyes to her fingers, which caressed against his chest in gentle strokes. “God, you always smell so good.” She buried her face against him and her chest heaved with one large inhaled breath. 

“Thanks. You do too.” Sandor rested his cheek on the top of her head. One hand slid up her back and he buried his fingers in her hair.

“Its vanilla.” He heard Sansa’s muffled voice say and felt her arms wrap around his middle as she continued to sway with him.  

“I like it,” he murmured and smoothed both hands down her back and then up again, repeating the motion which elicited a pleasured sigh to sound from Sansa’s lips.

The song seemed to hold the world at bay and it may as well have been just the two of them. Everything else faded away, blurred at the edges, and Sandor found himself committing her to memory – the way she felt against him and the way she responded to his touch. When the song ended, the beat of the music picked up and costumed partygoers rushed towards the dance floor, desecrating the sacred space that he and Sansa had carved out together.

 She stiffened in his arms and her eyes darted around the dance floor with emergent claustrophobia.

“I want to go home,” she said and clung to him.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

Sandor wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pushed his way through the crowd of sweaty, writhing bodies in ridiculous costumes. Upstairs, the crowd had thinned significantly and people left in droves, dragging tired or intoxicated friends with them. Sandor’s ears rang in the absence of pounding music. On the other side of the upstairs room, Loras argued with Margaery and the boyish features his face flamed red. Renly removed himself from the fray and sat at the empty bar, sipping scotch and bullshitting with the bartender. His eyes drifted and, when he caught sight of Sandor and Sansa, he abandoned his drink and hurried across the room. 

“Stay with her. I’ll go get my car and pull it up front.” Sandor removed Sansa’s arms from his middle. She stumbled into Renly who gripped her shoulders to steady her wavering movements.

A cold rush of air met Sandor when he stepped outside and the wind picked up with bitter insistence. He pulled the beanie from his pocket and placed it on his head. He walked in long, pounding strides the two blocks to his car, huffing in the cold and slightly out of breath as he fired up the engine. When he pulled up to the front of the restaurant, Renly emerged from the building with Sansa propped up next to him.

Sandor circled around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. Renly handed Sansa over to Sandor and she fell into him, stumbling over her own feet when her ankles refused to hold her weight. Sandor helped her into the passenger seat and listened while Renly told him where she lived. Sansa concurred with exaggerated nods, her chin nearly slamming into the front of her chest before her head bobbed back against the seat. The task of putting on her seat belt took a coordinated effort of Renly lifting her arms out of the way while Sandor struggled to keep her from wiggling around long enough that he could fasten the buckle in place.

Renly kissed Sansa’s cheek, shut her door, and shook Sandor’s hand. He watched from the sidewalk as Sandor pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. After a few blocks, Sansa pulled her legs onto the seat and eased it back as far as it could go. Turned towards him, she curled into a ball. At each stoplight, Sandor would half-expect to find her already passed out. Instead, he’d looked down to find her staring up at him. With her arms secure across her chest and her eyes heavy with sleep, she simply watched him with wordless wonder.

Sandor drove the short distance to the heart of the Central West End where she lived in one of the upscale loft buildings. He knew the area well. It was his hallowed stomping grounds, filled with ghosts from his past – bad dates, drunken nights, and an old girlfriend from half a decade ago. He’d sworn off coming here under the guise of avoiding overpriced and overrated hotspots. His friends all joked that he’d sworn off half the city for one reason or another. Nowhere was sacred for him anymore.

He reached the parking garage of Sansa’s building and she haphazardly directed him to her parking space on the third floor. He helped her from the car and held her hand as she wobbled towards the door leading into the building.

Sansa lived at the end of a long, sprawling hallway that seemed to go on endlessly. Tall ceilings housed the echo of their footsteps and, when they stopped at her door, Sansa retrieved the keys from her purse in Sandor’s hand. She managed to open her door with somewhat coordinated movements, despite the gentle sways of her body.

She opened the door to the vacuous innards of the loft apartment she shared with Joffrey. The space held mostly darkness, except the gauzy curtains adorning ceiling-height windows had been left open and light from the street poured through in effervescent columns. The door shut behind them and Sansa slipped out of her shoes. She pulled the cat ears from her head and tossed them to the L-shaped end of a beige couch in the living room. With her arms held out in front of her, she felt her way towards the hallway on the other side of the open living room. 

“I’ll get you some water,” Sandor said and he set her purse on the entry table.

“Kitchen’s there.” Sansa’s hand waved to her left and she disappeared into the hall. 

As he traversed the open space, Sandor failed to reconcile what part of Sansa existed here within the austere walls adorned with abstract art. The place lacked every bit of warmth he’d expect from anywhere Sansa resided. The photographs on the walls weren’t of anyone in particular – just shadowed landscapes with hazy silhouettes of random people. There were no pictures of family or even of Sansa and Joffrey as a couple. Those pictures only existed on Sansa’s desk at the office, except for the one of her and Joffrey in Paris. She’d removed that one a few weeks ago. In it, she’d looked happy and Joffrey had looked proud.

Sandor flicked on the lights in the kitchen and found a mixer sequestered to the far corner of otherwise empty grey granite counters. If any room boasted the traces of Sansa, it’d be this one. She loved to bake and, if Sandor had to guess, that was probably the one small joy she’d retained in recent months. Yet, nothing at all here suggested she’d made this particular room her own. A sudden wave of sadness and frustration overcame him. Sandor steadied himself against the counter and began opening cabinets until he found the glasses. They had been lined in orderly rows from tallest to shortest on the shelf. He plucked a tall glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the faucet.

Down the hall, he headed into the bathroom where he retrieved a white washcloth from the towel rack and wetted it with water. A far cry from the bathroom in her new apartment, this bathroom held a masculine visage – pristine chrome hardware with clean lines, slate grey tiles on the floor, and the only room he’d seen so far with walls that weren’t white. They were painted black and pictures of naked women hung on the walls – the poses looking like something from a playboy cover and none of them were of Sansa, or women that looked even remotely like her. Sansa’s glass perfume bottles rested on a mirrored stand in the corner of the countertop, looking distinctly out of place, though that place appeared hard-won in a bathroom fit for a sleazy bachelor.

It was quite obvious that Sansa merely occupied Joffrey’s apartment and this place had never been her own. Even as Sandor found her in the bedroom, she looked as though she occupied a stranger’s bed.

Sansa had removed her tights and sat up on the left side of the bed with a white duvet pulled to her chest. Her eyes roamed the room that was colorless and cold like everything else here and, even in the darkness and despite her lingering inebriation, Sandor saw the despondency taking hold in her. It left her looking haunted and fearful of all the bad blood that’d been unearthed here.

The hard mattress dipped with Sandor’s weight as he sat at the edge of the bed. He placed the glass on a brushed metal nightstand next to the matching metal-framed bed.

“Drink some water,” he urged.

Sansa looked at the glass and nodded, but left it sitting there. She ran her fingers through her hair and carefully studied the ends.

“I got fairy blood in my hair,” she said softly with a frown and held up the strands of her hair for him to see.

Sandor leaned forward to look. Her hair had clumped together in places where she’d spilled the sugary contents of the cocktail.

“That’ll wash out in the morning,” Sandor exhaled a laugh, but Sansa didn’t share in his mirth.

She dropped her hands to her lap and her eyes followed. With a curtain of hair obscuring her face, Sandor couldn’t quite see, but he heard the soft, ragged breaths sounding from her lips. When she lifted her head to look around the room, he saw that her eyes glistened at the corners. Her bottom lip quivered with the tremendous effort she seemed to put into curtailing the flow of tears.

“What’s wrong?” Sandor leaned closer to her and pulled one leg onto the bed.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. The tears broke free and streamed down her cheeks. The drawn-on cat whiskers were smeared across her face and the tip of her nose was still black. She wrapped her arms around her middle and gazed around the room again. In such a large, open space, she looked small and scared.

_She doesn’t want to be here._

He didn’t blame her and frankly didn’t understand how she stayed here for as long as she had – sleeping alone, eating alone, living a life that was meant to be shared, but by herself, alone in a city where she hardly knew anyone. The people she did know, the ones she’d trusted, took that trust and threw back in her face. Her entire world would crumble – was crumbling – and they’d only look on in scathing pity at all the messes she’d gotten herself in, the ones they’d created for her.

Succumbing to a tremendous desire to protect her, Sandor opened his arms to her and, no sooner had he done this, Sansa scooted towards him to be held. Against his chest, she shook with every quiet sob. With each one, he held her tighter, convinced he couldn’t get closer to her if he tried, but then another muffled cry came and he’d cradle her against him more closely than before.

When a calm came over her, Sansa loosened herself from his grasp and sat back up. In the small space between them, she hid her eyes with the backs of her hands so that he wouldn’t see.

“Stay with me.” The broken plea came with more tears. “Don’t leave me here alone.” A mournful, gasping cry escaped her lips and he saw how badly her shoulders trembled.

He grabbed her gently by the arm and pulled her against him once more. When Sansa buried her face in the crook of his neck, Sandor let his cheek rest against her head.

“Sansa, don’t cry,” he whispered to her. His lips brushed against her forehead. “You’re breaking my heart.” He pressed his nose against her tear-stained cheek and pressed soft kisses there, not minding the wetness that coated his lips.

“You broke mine first,” she reminded him and, at once, he was struck with an immense urge to fix whatever he’d wrecked and all the ways he may have compounded her hurt.

“I never meant to. I won’t do it again.” It sounded like a poor excuse to his ears and hardly the mortar to put her back together again. He pulled away, enough to look at her, and cupped her cheeks in his hands. She stared back at him, blinking through the lingering tears that wetted her eyelashes and spilled over her cheekbones, pattering against his hands.

“You don’t have to stay here alone. I could take you away from here. I’d take care of you. I’d keep you safe. Nothing and no one would hurt you again. You understand that, don’t you?”

Sansa nodded and drew in a heavy breath, which then exited her lips in a languished sigh.

“I want to,” she murmured. The corner of her mouth curled faintly in a sad little smile. Her palms covered the back of his hands. “I want you to take me away, but I can’t right now. I have to stay here. Just one more week.”

“I know,” he agreed with a nod. Sansa’s fingers curled beneath his palms still cupping her cheeks. She pulled his hands from her face and gathered them in the space between them, intertwining her fingers with his.

“I’m tired,” she sighed and fell back against the pillows on the bed. She let go of Sandor’s hands and covered herself with the duvet.

The wetness of the washcloth had soaked into the fabric of Sandor’s pant leg. He retrieved it and shifted closer to Sansa. In gentle strokes, he wiped the cloth against her cheek to remove the remnants of her whiskers.

“I forgot about that,” Sansa said with a smile.

“You can’t fall asleep as a cat.” Sandor continued to wipe with deliberate care as she watched him through a sleepy gaze.  

“Why not?” she asked with a sniffle.

“Because then you’ll be a cat when you wake up and we don’t want that.” He moved the cloth to her other cheek.

“No, we don’t want that.” Sansa closed her eyes. “I’m not a cat. I’m a bird. A little bird, remember?” 

She opened her eyes again despite the fact that she appeared to want nothing more than to sleep now. When she looked at him, genuine concern cut through the heaviness of fatigue, as if she truly feared he might have forgotten.

“Of course, I remember,” he assured with a laugh. He dabbed the cloth at the tip of her nose and the smile she gave him held only lingering traces of sadness. When he was done, Sandor tossed the washcloth to the nightstand.

“You talked about the right one earlier. Do you know her already, the girl who’s the right one?” Sansa turned to her side and, with the tip of her index finger, traced over the bones on the back of his hand.

Sandor nodded. His other hand rested against the side of her neck and his thumb caressed along the edge of her jawline. On the precipice of sleep and still somewhere in the haze of fairy blood, now wasn’t the time to tell her all he felt. Although she already seemed to know, he didn’t blame her for wanting to hear it said out loud.

“I’ll tell you on Monday. We’ll have a long talk about it then.”

“What if I forget?” she protested sweetly. Sandor removed his hand from her neck and occupied her fingers that smoothed over the back of his hand, interlacing them with his own fingers.  

“I won’t let you forget. Go to sleep now. Call me if you need anything.” 

“If I call, you’d take me away and take care of me, just like you said?” she asked and smiled at the sight of their hands clasped together. 

Sandor nodded slowly and gave her hand a subtle squeeze. 

“Yes. I want nothing more than to do those things, Sansa.” 

She turned her head over her shoulder towards the empty space where Joffrey presumably slept. The duvet and sheets were pulled taut on that side and the pillows remained undisturbed. Sandor thought the sadness might reemerge, but when she looked at him again, a sweet smile formed on her full lips and she cradled their intertwined hands against her chest.

“If I dream about you and you dream about me too, it’ll be like we’re together and you haven’t really left. I’d be like you’re still here with me.”

“I like that idea.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“Okay, I’ll dream that you’re right over there and you do the same.” She sunk deeper into her pillow with a heavy sigh.

“You got it. I’ll be right there, little bird.”

She gazed up at him and turned her head just enough that her lips were no longer obscured against the pillow. Her eyes roamed his face and she reached up with one hand. Her fingers trailed through his beard before her palm cupped his cheek. If he kissed her now – and God how he wanted to – she wouldn’t remember it come morning. It would be just a part of the dream, the ideal end to an otherworldly rendezvous.

He brought her fingers, still interwoven with his own, to his lips instead and pressed a kiss to each one in turn. He let her go then and undid himself from her side. Across town, his own bed was calling him, the left side empty, except in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *falls down...dies...* Whew! Well, that took a lot of effort! All worth it, but I'm still disappointed I couldn't update on Halloween!
> 
> As always, thank you so very much for all the love! Keep it coming! Heavens know it certainly revives me after doozies like this chapter. 
> 
> I've said this before, but now I really mean it. This will likely the longest installment, mostly for the time it takes me to edit monstrosities like this!


	9. Midnight

* * *

 

A stack of mismatched cardboard boxes rested against the beige wall of the bedroom Sansa shared with Joffrey. The set-up was precarious at best, and susceptible to toppling over. If she bumped into the stack, there’d be a mess on her hands, no doubt about it.

 

They weren’t even proper boxes, but a conglomeration of whatever she could find: a few shoeboxes, boxes from work, old boxes from her move to this city, boxes from appliances that’d long ago crapped out. Sansa rotated the camera view on her phone towards the stack for her sister to see.

 

“That’s it. I thought I’d have more to pack.” The declaration came colorless and echoed about the room. The wide planks of the wood floor soaked up a chill that seeped into her bare feet.

 

Arya chewed her lip, a prelude to a forced smile. The micro-expression may’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know Arya. Sansa knew knew that particular look. Arya only did it when she held back her opinions, which wasn’t often. Somewhere Arya had gained enough self-awareness to understand when to shut the hell up about things. Now wasn’t the time. She needed honesty the way only Arya could give it.

 

“What is it?” Sansa pressed.

 

“I could’ve sworn you left Oregon with three times as much stuff,” Arya laughed in great contrast to her folded brow. “Remember that? Dad agonizing over what size U-Haul to get?”

 

An exhaled sigh passed Sansa’s lips and she rotated the camera view back to her face.

 

“I remember,” she nodded. “That last month at home was truly unforgettable,” she added and hoped the sarcasm might mask any emergent homesickness, but the sentiment crept up in unexpected places and times. It came in moments she swore she was making it here, but then a drifting sense of listlessness would sweep in and carry her out to sea with nothing to hold on to, no tether to the shore.

 

She never told her parents how badly she wanted to come home sometimes. She’d left Oregon making sweeping declarations that she’d never live there again. _“I’ve outgrown it,”_ she’d say. _“I’ve done this town to death.”_ Her parents would just smile knowingly at her and she hated that more than anything.

 

In her final month at home, her father cautioned her endlessly about the dangers of hanging her hopes on shaky prospects. She argued he only said that because he didn’t like Joffrey. Her dad had bit his tongue, but never corrected her accusation.

 

Sansa left Oregon agreeing to disagree with him and he wished her all the best. By then, something had already been planted within her and threatened to grow like a weed – a warning, perhaps. Her father was right about something; Joffrey, her stubbornness, the mistake she was bound to make. She left home suppressing the warning bells, certain it’d all work out somehow.

 

“Where’s shithead?” Arya asked between mouthfuls of potato chips, the crumbs accumulating in the corners of her lips.

 

“I don’t know, actually,” Sansa shrugged.

 

She almost texted him to ask, to gain some peace of mind in knowing what to expect from him, but, then again, Joffrey never looked after her peace of mind. If he sensed she wanted him home, he’d stay out with no word of when he’d be back. Sansa couldn’t lie well enough to convince Joffrey she wanted him around. He’d sense her true desire – for him to stay away so she could slip from his life unnoticed and move on with her own. Some growing sense of dread told her that wasn’t going to happen either.

 

“Well, what are your plans for tonight?” Arya balled up the potato chip bag and aimed at the wastebasket across her dorm room.

 

“I’m taking a long shower and binge watching _Mad Men._ ” She’d been looking forward to it all day, a treat to herself for all the savvy packing she’d done. She’d somehow managed to squeeze her most prized belongings into boxes and part with the less important things. “What about you? Any plans with Gendry?”

 

Arya lifted one eyebrow dubiously, content to leave Sansa’s follow-on questions unanswered for now.

 

“It’s Saturday night! Why don’t you do something? Get out of that apartment for awhile. I think it’d be good for you.”

 

Sansa looked to her lap and her glasses followed, sliding down her nose to rest on the upturned end.

 

“No,” she shook her head. “I’m still recovering from Margaery’s Halloween party.”

 

Yesterday morning, she’d woken up with a hangover from hell – a skull splitting headache, rumbling stomach, and an abnormal sensitivity to the sun spilling through the bedroom drapes. Two Advil, one cup of tea, toast, and a hot shower later, she’d had just enough fortitude to make it to the coach wrapped in a blanket.

 

“God, I don’t have it in me to drink like that,” Sansa laughed at her own expense.

 

“Speaking of the party…” Arya’s voice tapered off as she darted off screen. Sansa could hear her rummaging through her bag. Her sister reappeared with her cellphone in hand and held it up to the laptop’s camera. “I’d like an explanation for this text message from Loras.”

 

Sansa pushed her glasses back into place and squinted at the image as it came into focus. Loras had sent Arya a dimly lit picture. It was hazy on the edges as if taken in haste or in drunkenness. Despite the low quality, the image was still decipherable, enough that Sansa recognized herself at the bar. Sandor’s height always gave him away, but he was sitting in the picture and Sansa was happily settled between his legs, arms thrown over his shoulders and her face close to his. The picture appeared to capture them moments away from a kiss. Beneath the photograph was Loras’ caption: “ _Hustlin’ for that D!”_      

Arya pulled the phone away from the camera. “Who’s the guy?” she asked with deviant intrigue.

 

“That’s my boss,” Sansa said plainly and without the cadence of mortified silence Arya probably expected.

 

Sansa had grappled only briefly with shame and embarrassment that came in tandem with her hangover. The requisite next-morning regrets never quite took hold. She waited to feel sorry for the things she’d done and said, the way she’d flirted with Sandor and allowed herself to shed her professional decorum. She invited his touches and relished the attention he paid her. More than anything, she basked in the ability to pretend, at least for one evening, they belonged to one another.

 

Nothing of the night had been overtly scandalous; that she knew for sure. Despite this, she’d pushed the boundaries of flirtation and he had too. If Renly hadn’t interrupted them outside the restaurant, Sansa was fairly certain Sandor’s fingers would’ve found their way past her tights and into her panties. The desire exchanged between them remained solid in her memory, just a continuation of what’d already been started, but something else had occurred.

 

_He kissed me._

 

“Oh lord, Sansa. How drunk were you?” Arya rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation.

 

Sansa put thought into the question. How drunk had she been exactly? Intoxication always came as more of an out-of-body experience for Sansa, rather than full-lapses in memory. In drunkenness, she lost details, but somehow remained bound to reality, too afraid to fully relinquish knowledge of her surroundings.

 

A drunken haze poked large holes in her memories of Halloween night, but the holistic picture remained intact, strung together by memories of Sandor. All that was said and done between them had set her adrift in wistful daydreams and turned her entire world upside down. She spent Friday on the couch trying to regain her bearings, but recollections came in small glimpses and still-frames; all except one memory that remained in vivid detail.

 

He had been in her bed, ready to leave. His hand caressed her face with a tentative touch. His fingers smoothed through her hair, and the tip of his nose pressed against her cheek. He had turned just slightly enough that his lips swept towards her mouth. Soft kisses, he somehow knew she liked those. There was nothing demanding about the way their lips met, but the desire still remained.

 

Even that desire had yielded to tenderness and Sansa failed to recall all those details. After they kissed, he’d said things to her, sweet things she wanted and needed to hear from him. The attraction and chemistry between them was a heartbeat away from boiling over. It was just a matter of time before they dealt with those urges. She needed more, though. Without his heart, the resolution would be empty. He very well may have given her that, but Sansa couldn’t quite remember. Tears and whispers and kisses, that’s all that surfaced in her memories. Yet, the reprise of Sandor’s words was on the tip of her tongue and she was left perpetually on the precipice of remembering.

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa shrugged and her eyes drifted to the bedspread where she picked at a loose thread. “Who says I have to be drunk to like him?”

 

The rhetorical question didn’t puzzle Arya so much as it imparted a sudden understanding. She slumped back in her seat and a small smile played on her lips.

 

“You like him,” Arya gasped. “Wow. I had no idea.”

 

“Yeah,” Sansa whispered with a nod and found herself relieved at the admission.

 

“I thought he had a girlfriend,” Arya pressed inquisitively, the question implicit. “And you met that girl, didn’t you?”

 

Sansa nodded again. She’d told Arya everything about the night on the Hill, except the blow up between her and Sandor. Even recanted in hindsight, an exchange with that much fervor spoke for itself all the words neither she nor Sandor could manage. Sansa had thought it best to keep that detail to herself.

 

“They broke up,” Sansa informed, sounding as nonplussed as Sandor had been when he told her. Her lack of guilt at this development was perhaps the only thing that vexed her. Then again, she doubted very much that Annalise’s heart was broken over Sandor. The only preservation Annalise seemed interested in was that of her ego.

 

“Have you broken things off with Joff yet?” Arya asked as if it were a natural progression in her questions. Sansa blinked slowly at her sister, head cocked to the side.

 

“Yeah,” she nodded with a laugh. “I mean, I told him I was leaving, that I got my own place. Remember? I told you about that already.”

 

“You did, but he didn’t blow up about it, right?” Arya continued, but her voice became quiet and she cast a pointed stare at Sansa.

 

“No. He seemed kind of relieved actually.” Confusion suffused the conversation on Sansa’s end. She’d relayed to Arya the whole series of conversations between herself and Joffrey. Her sister had listened with interest, equally puzzled and relieved by Joff’s acquiescence.

 

“I don’t think he thinks you two are through.” Arya’s sudden observation left Sansa thunderstruck, floundering for a loss of words. How the hell could he have mistaken their conversation for anything else?

 

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.

 

“Did you have a break up conversation or a moving out conversation?” Arya lifted one brow questioningly.

 

Sansa played the memory back in her mind. She’d gone over it again and again, both prior to and after breaking the news to Joffrey.

 

 _“I think it’d be best if I moved out.”_ She had stood on the side of their dinning room table closest to the door. Joffrey had been on the other side. It’d been after the first meal they shared together in as long as Sansa could remember.

 

When the color faded from Joff’s cheeks, she knew the conversation was bound to be an anomaly. She’d prepared for a fight, but instead faced a side of Joffrey she hadn’t encountered since they first started dating. He didn’t clench his jaw or curl his fists. His face didn’t flush a ruddy red and his venom had been curbed. He simply nodded and said firmly, but not forcefully:

 

_“I understand. Yes, I think that’s best.”_

 

She hadn’t seen much of him since. When they did speak to one another, he’d ask when she was moving out or other logistics of the split – what she couldn’t take, what she could, how much to contribute to rent and bills for her final month. Surely, he couldn’t think that they were still together. It seemed rather obvious to her that their cordial yet cold behavior towards one another constituted a break-up dynamic.

 

“Aren’t they the same?” Sansa asked, if nothing more than to seek validation.

 

“Maybe to you.” Arya’s brow folded again. “Just be careful is all I’m saying,” she added fretfully.

 

“I know.” Sansa nodded. “I should probably go. I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

 

“Alright, well call me if you need anything,” Arya said. “I will drive my ass down there in the middle of the night if douche bag does anything,” she continued, the encouragement transforming into a threat. “Love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Sansa responded with a dull smile. She waved goodbye and Arya ended the call, leaving Sansa’s facetime screen with nothing but her own image.

 

“Hair’s a mess,” she grumbled to herself and tried to work her fingers through the knots, a useless endeavor if there ever was one. Arya had complimented the tousled look of Sansa’s ponytail. Little did she know that “tousled” look was from her sleeping on it the night before and not washing it yet today. Sansa pushed herself from her bed and retreated into the bathroom.

 

She ran a comb through her hair and winced with the initial strokes until the tangles were gone. She turned on the shower and slipped out of her leggings and sweater. Moments later, the bathroom filled with steam and dewy drops clung against her skin. In the shower, she soaked up the warmth of the water with a sigh. She’d unearthed her favorite sugar scrub in packing and savored the small joy of rubbing it against her skin. Out of the shower, she slathered on body butter before donning her cotton robe. She dried her hair, oiled the ends and brushed through until it gleamed with soft waves.

 

For a time, Sansa staved off the unsavory implications of her situation: a grievous misunderstanding that meant she would have to engage in yet _another_ unpleasant conversation with Joffrey. The thought left her stomach in knots.

 

 _Nothing should be done until I move out,_ she reasoned against worry. _First, get out of the line of fire. Second, set him straight. Third, hope like hell it sticks._

Comforted by her plan, Sansa shuffled into the kitchen on slippered feet. She leaned against the counter and listened to the latest episode of her favorite podcast. She didn’t even bother to heat last night’s leftover lo mein in the microwave. It tasted better straight from the little square container it came in.

 

 _This is nice,_ she mused and extrapolated the moment into her new apartment. She’d have a bathtub there and a big picture window looking down onto a street lined with old oak trees. She’d have soft lights and all her books displayed on shelves, not squirreled away in boxes. She’d read and knit, watch old movies, and make new friends. That’s how she’d make things work – small things at first, little treasures and moments just to herself. The hardest part was almost over and everything else would surely fall into place.

 

A jingle sounded from the bedroom– a new text message. Sansa slurped up the last bit of noodles and tossed the container in the trashcan on her way out of the kitchen. She rummaged through the sheets of her unmade bed until she found her phone nestled beneath the blanket. She stared at the lit-up screen and her heart leapt to her throat.

 

Sandor.

 

She hadn’t heard from him since Friday afternoon. He’d checked in with a text message to see how she felt. The exchange, though pleasant enough, felt strange and strained, despite only being one cycle of back and forth. There wasn’t much to read into, but Sansa managed anyhow and decided _something_ felt off. She unlocked her screen now and pulled up his message.

 

**_Just got a tip off from the PD about a guy I’ve been tailing. I’m running surveillance tonight if you want to join._ **

****

Her heart pounded in a frantic rhythm. A ragged exhale escaped her lips. She’d always been curious about surveillance, but that hardly mattered now. Neither did her plans for a night curled up in bed with Netflix. If she saw him, they would have to address what they’d been tiptoeing around for so long. That moment always looked different in her head – a daydream of perfectly spoken words at just the right instance, free of interruptions and inhibitions towards truth. It certainly didn’t manifest while out on a surveillance run. Her phone jingled once more, another message from Sandor.

****

**_Sorry for the late notice. Feel free to tell me no. You won’t hurt my feelings._ **

****

Sinking to the edge of her bed, Sansa began drafting a reply. First, she declined, but that left an empty ache in her chest. She erased that message to replace it with one where she agreed. That message left her trembling and wanting to hear his voice so she called instead, a bundle of nerves settling in her stomach with each ring that passed. On the first ring, she hoped he’d answer. _Please just pick up._ The second ring came and her stomach flipped and fluttered. _No, go to voicemail._

 

“Hey,” Sandor finally answered. His voice came muffled along with a rustling sound, as if the phone were cradled against his shoulder while his hands were busy. “I’m just heading out the door.”

 

“Hi,” she said on a breathy sigh. _Oh god. Pull it together, Sansa._ “Um, about the surveillance…” She hopped from bed and paced the cold floor.

 

“You already have plans, I bet.” Sandor laughed when he said it, but still Sansa could hear beginnings of disappointment.

 

“No, actually. I’d like to come.” She smiled into the phone, effervescent at the prospect of seeing him tonight.

 

“Great. I’ll be happy to have the company,” he said, sounding very much like he was smiling into the phone too.

 

“You said you’re leaving now. Where should I meet you?” Sansa worked to steady her voice. Her shoulders trembled and her knees were no better, about to buckle. She sunk back to the edge of her bed.

 

“Meet me at the gas station on Hanley, the one right off the highway with the Amoco sign. Can you leave now?”

 

Sansa chewed her lip. Her hair, though clean, was limp and she didn’t have time to put on makeup. _It’s not a date,_ she reminded herself.

 

“Yeah. I’ll leave in two minutes,” she agreed.

 

“Alright, see you soon.”

 

When Sandor hung up, Sansa dashed towards the bathroom and ripped through her make up bag. With shaky hands, she dabbed on a bit of concealer under her eyes and brushed some color across her cheeks. On uncurled lashes, she quickly swiped a layer of mascara before putting her glasses back in place. She threw her hair up in a messy bun, wispy tendrils loose at the base of her neck.

 

Sansa wiggled back into her black leggings and slipped on her red converse shoes. She tossed on an oversized grey sweater, long enough that it covered her ass. On the way out the door, she snatched up her purse and took one final look at herself in the foyer mirror. She looked like a nerd in her glasses and the sweater did nothing for her form. She readjusted the elongated neckline so it fell off her shoulder. _Now I just look ridiculous._

Sansa pulled the sweater back onto her shoulder, threw on her black jacket, and booked it out the door. Outside, the humid air was sticky against her skin, despite a subtle chill. A sweet breeze drifted through the fall leaves and rain fell in a light drizzle. The weather here was predictable only in its fickleness. A cold front had gripped the region just last week and now the temperatures outside were more akin to spring.

 

Sansa drove the few miles towards the famed gas station with a disproportionately large Amoco looming overhead. The place was apparently a landmark in the city and a point of reference everyone seemed to know about. She parked on the well-lit side of the mini-mart, next to a row of coin-operated vacuums and air machines.

 

She spotted Sandor’s car beneath the overhang next to pump three, though the gas nozzle wasn’t attached to his car. With a quick look in the mirror, Sansa fastened the loose tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck with a bobby pin and dabbed on a thin layer of lip gloss. She took a deep breath and gathered up her purse.

 

On her way towards pump three, she dodged puddles that’d gathered in the deep crevices on the ground. She tiptoed around them in deliberate steps. Her knees had gone wobbly in a pleasured numbness, the kind that accompanied a nervous fluttering in her stomach. With her eyes to the ground, she hadn’t noticed Sandor emerging from the minimart and watching her with interest. When she looked up, Sandor loomed over her only a few small steps away. Sansa jumped with a startled gasp.

 

“Hey,” she laughed breathlessly before drawing in a steady inhale to calm herself. Her hand covered her chest where her racing heart thrummed against her palm. “God you scared me! I thought you’d be in your car.”

 

“Nope.” Sandor lifted a white plastic bag and gave it a small jiggle. “For the road.”

 

He smiled at her; not a full smile, but one that lifted the corner of his mouth in a knowing grin. He studied her, gaze flicking from her eyes to her lips and back again. It was doubtful he knew he did this, but Sansa had noticed the habit and the subtle tension it seemed to bring with it. Now, she looked for it every time he came into the office or in moments like this. Like clockwork, it came, along with the feeling it deposited in her. She felt as if the world were spinning around her in a blaze. It left her dizzy, hardly able to speak without worrying endlessly that her voice would tremble or that her words would come out a nonsensical mess.

 

“We should get going.” Sandor motioned his head towards his mustang and Sansa nodded with a shy smile erupting across her lips. He led the way towards his car in assured strides, his fitted jeans and leather jacket both unbelievably sexy on him. He’d let his hair hang across his shoulders in dark waves, something he didn’t do very often at the office. He wore it well, Sansa noticed, along with his beard that drew attention to the sharp line of his jaw. He’d let it grow in evenly and trimmed it often enough to keep it kempt.

 

Then there was the cologne he wore. She remembered pressing herself against him on Halloween and breathing him in. Her hands had rested against his chest and his arms had been wrapped around her. Warm skin and hard muscles, she recalled that bit too. No wonder she hadn’t noticed Loras taking a picture of them.

 

“Everything alright?” Sandor’s question invaded her thoughts and he subtly narrowed his eyes at her with a coy smile.

 

_Oh god. Was I staring?_

 

“Yeah. I’m excited,” Sansa chirped merrily and climbed into car.

 

Sandor settled into the driver’s seat and let the keys dangle from the ignition. He tapped at the screen of his phone and pulled up an address. The engine turned over with a load roar before Sandor navigated towards the road running along side the gas station. Sansa eased back into her seat with her purse secured on her lap. One foot tapped gently against the floorboard as she gazed out the window.

 

_Say something._

 

She eyed the panel display of the radio. With no music, the silence in the car created a void. Maybe he wanted to talk to her, to strike up conversation. Sansa wished he would. As it stood, her palms were clammy and her heart still fluttered in her chest. If she talked now, he’d know how nervous she was. Never, not even when they first met, had she felt this timid and, in those days, Sandor certainly hadn’t been the easiest person to get along with. She’d made the best of it and gotten through to him. They’d become friends. They’d talked about damn near everything with one another – family, relationships, hopes, fears, dreams. All of it, and now Sansa struggled for something to say to him.

 

She tugged on a tendril of hair that’d come loose and twirled it around her finger. Her eyes shifted to Sandor as he switched lanes and kept his focus on the road. He didn’t look nervous, only preoccupied. He chewed his bottom lip. God, she loved when he did that. Now it bid her thoughts to detour straight to the memories of their kiss. Undoubtedly feeling her heavy gaze on him, Sandor’s eyes suddenly shifted in Sansa’s direction.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he chuckled and turned to her. “You’re unusually quiet.”

 

His left arm draped over the steering wheel at the wrist while his right hand shifted gears. Though he turned his attention back to the road, his eyes drifted towards Sansa once more, but now worry and doubt had crept into his countenance.

 

“Sorry,” Sansa sighed. She shifted in her seat and planted both feet on the floorboard, if nothing more than to stop the incessant fidgeting of her right foot. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she assured.

 

For a moment, the urge to sink further into the emergent mixture of embarrassment and nervousness took hold. That was a slippery slope. Her reticence would ruin the evening. Where she’d once been witty, talkative, and charming with Sandor, she was a frantic heartbeat away from becoming withdrawn and shy, too fearful of saying the wrong thing or somehow screwing things up. _Is he as nervous as I am?_ she wondered.

 

Her solace was to pretend that he was and to recall the times when he seemed to stumble over his own words, or say the wrong thing; all those times she took him to be curt and annoyed when really he probably grappled with the same feelings she did now. Comforted, Sansa drew in a deep breath and turned to Sandor.

 

“What’d you do today?” she asked sweetly.

 

Suddenly, whatever tension Sandor held in his frame broke. His shoulders relaxed and his smile widened, crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes, which were alight now.

 

“Went to the hardware store,” he informed with a small measure of pride seeping through his words. “Replaced the plumbing on my kitchen sink. Took Ammo to the dog park.”

 

“Sounds productive. And manly,” Sansa giggled softly. Those stray bits of pride seemed to swell in Sandor then.

 

“Manly,” he repeated with a rough laugh and a shake of his head, as if to pretend he wasn’t veritably beaming from it. “What’d you do?” he asked.

 

“Packed, mostly. It went really quick. I thought I had more stuff.”

 

“Yeah, things tend to disappear with the whole merging and unmerging of stuff,” Sandor offered nonchalantly. He turned off of the main road and onto a side street that winded through a neighborhood.

 

Sansa nodded. She reminded herself that Sandor was well into his thirties and, therefore, it was entirely reasonable and perfectly healthy for him to have had many previous relationships.

 

“So you’ve lived with a girlfriend before?” she ventured when the curiosity refused to be quelled.

 

“Sort of,” Sandor shrugged. “My ex before Annalise. We tried to ease into living together. Didn’t work out so well.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, I can see that,” Sansa mumbled vacantly.

 

She couldn’t stop herself from wondering how many relationships he’d been in.

 

 _I bet he’s had a million girlfriends._ Blondes, brunettes. Tall, short, outspoken, vivacious. Maybe he’d dated executives in the past, other business owners. Or maybe he’d dated models – women with long legs and tiny waists. Or women closer to his age who were established and could hold their liquor.

_Maybe he could like me._ Sansa knew he was attracted to her. She wasn’t blind, but perhaps that was all he saw her as – someone to fuck. Then again, he’d said things to her, sweet things. Or maybe he hadn’t. In her drunkenness, maybe she misremembered his tenderness and the way she could’ve sworn she entirely cared for in that moment with him.

 

An emergent desire formed and she wanted to ask Sandor what’d happened. Didn’t he enjoy their kiss? Maybe he wanted to ignore it, sweep it under the rug. Perhaps he was just trying to spare her some embarrassment. Sansa turned her attention out the window.

 

A yellow glow of streetlamps enveloped the quiet neighborhood street dotted with brick houses and apartment buildings. A few streets down, past the residential rows of quaint little homes, Sandor turned down a street lined with businesses – attorneys, small shops, and a few restaurants. He circled the block twice before ultimately parking near a sushi restaurant.

 

He left the car running, but turned off the headlights and unfastened his seat belt. When he shifted in his seat, Sansa’s heart nearly stopped beating. He leaned towards the center console and for a brief, panicked moment Sansa thought he might kiss her. She sat frozen in place, too stunned to move. Though he hovered close to her, Sandor reached towards the back seat and felt around for his camera bag. Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap. Of course, he wouldn’t kiss her. She was silly to think he’d be so bold when they hadn’t even talked about their first kiss yet.

 

Sandor pulled out the camera he used exclusively for surveillance and let it rest on his lap. He returned the bag to the back seat and scanned through the music on his phone.

 

“Now it’s just a matter of waiting,” he intoned and flicked on the display screen of the radio. Music drifted through his speakers at a volume soft enough not to preclude conversation. The melody and the tempo of music were unfamiliar to Sansa – a soft male voice accompanying simple, lyrical tones and the strumming of an acoustic guitar. The choice surprised her. Sandor favored metal music mostly, she knew, but this was different – laid back and maybe even romantic.

 

From the white plastic bag from the gas station, Sandor pulled out two bottles of Snapple iced tea and handed one to Sansa.

 

He remembered she drank iced tea. Almost everyday, she produced a bottle of it from her lunch box and, though Sandor never commented on it, he must’ve noticed. She wondered what else he’d observed when she didn’t know he was watching.

 

“Oh, wow! Thanks!” Sansa took the bottle from him and watched as he pulled a package of gummy bears from the white bag.

 

“An important rule of surveillance: gotta have provisions.”

 

Sandor settled back in his seat, turned on the camera, and flicked through some of the settings. Sansa watched him, not because she didn’t know or couldn’t figure out how to work a camera. His fingers worked deftly and his brow furrowed slightly when he concentrated on things. Something about it was undeniably attractive and endearing. From the beginning, it was always him watching her – a curious gaze turning into something more, longing perhaps. At some point, Sansa found herself looking back at him in the same way.

 

“I like this.” She said and Sandor took it to mean the music.

 

“Yeah, Bronn turned me on to this band,” he told her as he fiddled with the camera.

 

He was none the wiser that what she meant to say was she liked spending time with him and the small sentiments – gummy bears and iced tea – meant the world to her.

 

“What would you have done tonight if you weren’t doing this?” Sansa asked him.

 

“I don’t know. Bronn wanted to hit up this bar downtown.” He scratched at his beard and turned to Sansa. “Probably would’ve stayed home, though,” he added with a shrug.

 

Sansa nodded understandingly, but in truth she didn’t know much about his social life, other than the names of a handful of his friends.

 

“How come?” she inquired.

 

“I’m not really into the bar scene anymore,” Sandor responded on a sigh. “I’m kind of over it.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Sansa agreed. “You came to the bar on Halloween, though.”

 

Just an observation, she didn’t expect Sandor to say anything in response, but she found him looking her in that way she’d seen him stare at her dozens of times before; as if something momentous was about to be spoken, words hanging on his lips and he honored them with a heavy silence, but his eyes spoke more than he probably knew. She knew this look and, no matter how many times she’d seen it before, Sansa imagined it would never stop leaving her breathless and reeling in its wake.

 

“That was different,” he said quietly. “That was to see you.”

 

He didn’t look away, but his eyes flickered to her lips momentarily. What she wouldn’t give to trace his thoughts, to know what he was thinking and seeing when he looked at her like this. Instinct couldn’t be quelled and it was instinct that urged her to acknowledge _something_ existed between them; something undeniable and they could bury it in platonic pleasantries all they wanted, but it would surface again and again.

Doubts always had a way of creeping in, though. Sansa was left with the memory of him standing before her in the cold empty street, and firmly denying he felt anything towards her other than friendship. How silly she had been to read anything else into it. How utterly misguided, but he couldn’t possibly control what came through at the eyes and so it was only him she felt was silly and misguided. Yet, she took him at his word and, of those, he had so few.

 

Sansa looked away, breaking the connection and drawing in a deep breath.

 

Rain drizzled against the windshield in a fine mist and the streetlights filtered through the droplets, lighting them up like tiny orbs smattered across the glass. Sandor flicked on the wipers and opened the package of gummy bears, which he set in the console between them. Moments passed where Sansa noticed how he sifted through the bag and only plucked out certain colors.

 

“You like the green ones,” she noted with a smile because his small quirks were endearing and this was certainly one of them.

 

“Yeah. You don’t?” He smiled back at her and popped another green gummy bear into his mouth.

 

“Red and white are my favorites.” Sansa motioned towards her palm, which was populated with gummy bears in her choice colors.

 

“Nope,” Sandor shook his head firmly. “Green and yellow are the best.”

 

“It seems we have compatible gummy bear preferences,” Sansa mused, but kept her eyes to her palm.

 

“That’s important criteria,” Sandor agreed after a long moment where nothing was said. For once, she was grateful to not be locked at the eyes with him. Maybe he thought her statement was stupid or too forward. _I shouldn’t have said it._ A blush crept across her cheeks.

 

“I can see why you get bored on these,” Sansa commented to change the subject.

 

Though Sandor never complained about surveillance, he certainly never seemed enthused about it either. She often wondered if he missed his time in the military and the excitement of it all, the momentum it provided, all of which remained in stark contrast to his current job. She never knew whether or not to ask about his time overseas. On his part, Sandor rarely brought it up.

 

“Do you sometimes miss being in the military?” she inquired with a fair bit of trepidation. She curled her hands around the iced tea bottle. One finger circled the rim of the top.

 

Stoic as ever, Sandor stared out the windshield, the only sound between them the music and the squeaking as the wipers ran across the glass. He pondered the question, although Sansa assumed he already knew the answer. He turned to her and his eyes softened.

 

“Sometimes. I miss feeling like I was part of something bigger. I miss the adrenaline rush. The camaraderie. I don’t miss being shot at. And I don’t miss watching my friends die.”

 

Head downturned, Sandor’s mouth lifted slightly in the corner with a mirthless smile, a preemptive move to lessen the sudden gravity of the conversation. Sansa knew the hurt that resided behind it. She reached across the console and placed her hand on top of his. His smile lifted at the contact, blossoming into something genuine, comforted perhaps.

 

“Yeah, surveillance isn’t exactly exciting,” he continued with a sigh.

 

“Still more excitement than desk work,” Sansa laughed and removed her hand from his.

 

“True,” he nodded distractedly, and other thoughts appeared to take precedent. “I’m glad you brought that up actually. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

 

Sansa stilled and her smile dissolved. _Oh no. Here it comes. Is he going to talk about the kiss?_ It was such an awkward segue, but she supposed there was no eloquent way to ease into the conversation. She cast a reluctant gaze in his direction and clutched onto her nearly empty iced tea bottle.

 

“I got the preliminary projections for next year and it looks like I can hire two more people. I need all the help I can get out in the field and I think I’d like to hire someone to help you.”

 

With swift relief, Sansa let an indiscernible sigh slip through her lips, but the sudden course of conversation blindsided her. For all the deliberate attention she’d paid to the words coming out of his mouth, the sum total left her grasping at straws for something to say.

 

“Sandor, the reports and admin work aren’t demanding enough to require a second person. You’d have two employees bored out of their mind half the time.”

 

The honest answer came with little hesitation. In work matters, they were past intense silences and awkward transitions. She felt comfortable telling him things plainly and with confidence that he wouldn’t strike down her suggestions or observations. _So why can’t I do that when it comes to my feelings?_

 

“I know that,” Sandor nodded. “You wouldn’t be doing those things anymore, not unless you want to.”

 

A quiet calm replaced the frenzied beat of Sansa’s heart. She furrowed her brows. Surely, he wouldn’t want her out doing surveillance with him. She didn’t even know if she liked it yet.

  
“What would I be doing then?” she asked.

 

“Office management and marketing,” Sandor replied. “I want you to help grow the business. The current clients love you. You know enough now that I feel comfortable sending you to meet prospective clients. You’re much better with people than I am,” he added with a laugh and shifted a glance towards Sansa. “This is only if you want to. If you’re happy doing what you’re doing, I wouldn’t take you away from that.”

 

Sansa said nothing, but nodded, uncertain of what he expected from her – an immediate answer, a discussion, suggestions.

 

“You’d have more responsibilities, a new title, and a raise. Once I meet with our accountant, we can negotiate an exact figure,” Sandor continued and Sansa noticed his anxiousness. It seemed as though being unable to get a read on her unnerved him in some small way. _That makes two of us._

 

This was everything she wanted in her career, exactly what she’d hoped to accomplish when embarking on her own. The offer certainly thrilled her, but something else seemed to overshadow it. Her personal dynamic with Sandor had changed and now that allowed a nagging uncertainty to take hold. After resolving herself to remain totally professional with him, one of them, or maybe both, invited grey areas back into their working relationship.

 

“Yeah, this all sounds great. I think it’ll be a good change.” Sansa’s muted enthusiasm didn’t seem to go unnoticed from Sandor.

 

“Great. Perfect,” he replied tensely and averted his gaze out the windshield.

 

Many long minutes passed where neither of them said anything more. Sansa tried to concentrate on the music or the surroundings outside the car, but her mind kept coming back to all the questions that lingered.

 

“Alright, here he comes,” Sandor said, breaking the silence. He snatched up the camera on his lap and passed it over to Sansa.

 

She fumbled with it, eyes scanning out the windshield towards a man with an umbrella walking in quick strides down the sidewalk.

 

“Just point and shoot,” Sandor encouraged gently, despite the subtle urgency of his words.

 

Sansa did as she was told, finding the button to snap the shots and lifting the camera discreetly at the man as he hurried towards them.

 

“It didn’t turn out.” She furrowed her brow at the LCD screen that showed only a black frame. Sandor reached for the camera and popped off the lens cap.

 

“That helps,” he teased with a chuckle.

 

Sansa lifted the camera and tried again, this time capturing pictures of the man with his face clearly visible.

 

“Got it!” she exclaimed and held out the camera to Sandor for him to scan through the shots.

 

“Not bad,” he commented with a nod of approval and reached towards the back seat for the camera bag. After returning the camera to its proper place, he glanced at the clock on the radio display.

 

“It’s midnight,” he noted with some surprise, as if the time had passed without notice on his end. “Let’s call it a night.”

 

With that, he shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. The drive back to the gas station commenced in relative silence, but tension between them mounted. Sandor chewed his bottom lip and his fingers tapped against the steering wheel nervously. Sansa stilled, but her arms wrapped tightly around her middle and she looked out the window for the duration of the drive, noting inconsequential details of passing houses and cars in an effort to distract herself.

 

Sandor pulled into the gas station parking lot and maneuvered into the space next to Sansa’s car. He turned to her with a tense smile as she gathered up her purse from the floorboard. They were bound towards exchanging terse pleasantries: he’d thank her for coming along and she’d thank him for the invite, one of them would murmur a “see you on Monday,” and that would be that, but she knew damn well what would happen long into the quiet hours of morning.

 

She’d stare at the ceiling with regret for not saying what needed to be said and asking the questions that she needed answered. She would battle with desire and the memory of what it felt like to be in his arms, to be understood, cared for, and seen. Sansa knew this routine because she’d been living it for the past few nights and, while that didn’t seem so terribly much, it was hard and it hurt and she didn’t want to do it anymore.

 

She let her purse rest on her lap and swiveled in her seat towards him, facing him fully and matching his eyes.

 

“Are we going to talk about the thing that happened on Halloween?” Though framed as a question, she hoped he understood that “no” would not be accepted as an answer.

 

Sandor stared at the steering wheel, still chewing his lip.

 

“A lot of things happened on Halloween,” he finally said, but betrayed no emotion. His tempo came neutral, and Sansa didn’t know if that comforted or concerned her. “Narrow it down a bit. What part of Halloween night?”

 

“The part in my bedroom.” With no music playing now, the only sound between them was the quiet hum of the engine and the low whooshing of air coming from the vents. Sandor nodded and his gaze shifted in her direction.

 

“What do you remember?” he asked, eyes flicking over her face as though he were scrutinizing her reaction rather carefully.

 

“We…um…we kissed…” A smile played on Sansa’s lips, coaxed by both timid hesitation and the memory of the act itself.

 

“Kissed?” Sandor repeated. Both brows lifted incredulously and his eyes widened.

 

“Yeah, I put my hand on your cheek and then you kissed me. We kissed.”

 

At once, Sandor appeared besieged with confusion and flattery. It was a strange combination of sentiments that did little to reassure Sansa this conversation might end well. She took it as prelude to rejection, a way to let her down gently by saying, “thanks for thinking of me that way, but no thanks.”

 

“Sansa, we didn’t kiss,” Sandor insisted quietly.

 

She could tell he took great care with his words. The delivery came soft and slow, but she felt the blow anyhow. It landed at her core like a punch to the gut. Her heart raced wild and her cheeks burned hot.

 

“What?” she breathed and shook her head, frantically scanning her memories. The _one_ crystalline thing was his mouth against hers. “Yes we did. I remember it. I know we did.”

 

_Is this just in my head? A drunken, fabricated memory?_

 

It existed in almost perfect, tangible form in hindsight, such a sweet recollection. Only now it seemed just a cruel manifestation of her desires. She paid a glance in his direction, long enough that she swore he was staring back at her with evident pity, but then she couldn’t bear to let her eyes linger. She hung her head and concentrated on her lap where her hands wrung together.

 

“I guess technically I did kiss you, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Sandor offered and she wished he would just stop.

 

He probably kissed her as friend – a quick peck on the check, like how she kissed Margaery or Arya in parting. Her imagination had ran with that and created a grotesquely embarrassing memory instead.

 

“In what way then?” she asked with a defeated sigh. She fully expected him to explain once more how they were only friends and he was her boss, nothing more.

 

Instead, Sandor reached across the console and pulled one of her hands into his own. His fingers wrapped around her palm. Sansa turned a bewildered stare at him just as he lifted her hand to his lips.

 

“Well, I kissed you here,” he murmured against the back of her hand before pressing his lips to her fingers. Sansa went rigid at the contact. Her shoulders tensed and now her heart thrummed for far different reasons. She felt as though she could barely breath, despite her heaving chest suggesting otherwise.

 

“Here.”

 

Sandor let go of her hand and cupped her cheek. Uncontrollable tremors ran through Sansa’s body. Sandor leaned over the center console slowly, eyes glued to her as he went.

 

He kissed her forehead in the sweet way she’d always wanted to be kissed. There was something tender and protective about this sort of kiss. He shifted and his mouth moved to her cheek.

 

“And here.”

 

She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin and the tip of his nose pressed against her. He kissed her cheek softly, but there was nothing platonic about it.

 

“I remembered something different,” Sansa said on a tremulous whisper.

 

He’d made his point, or so she thought. He’d pull away and maybe he’d relish her false memory of the whole ordeal. Sandor wasn’t cruel, though. And he wasn’t done.

 

His lips grazed across her cheek towards her mouth. He only faltered momentarily when she sucked in a sharp breath. Simple at first, he let his lips caress hers, ready to pull away if she gave any protest. She didn’t. Calm came over her and all the tension fled at the warmth of his mouth against hers.

 

“Is that what you remember?” he murmured in between slow kisses planted gently at her lips, one right after the next.

 

Sansa nodded and shifted towards him. Sandor parted her lips with his tongue, easing towards an increasingly fevered kiss, deep and impassioned. Sansa wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She pressed her body against him as best she could. The damn console created an unwanted barrier between them, but Sansa didn’t care how it jabbed annoying at her side. What’d started with sweet hesitation was simply the spark. All the unspoken desires had found their outlet. Sansa’s head swam. The blood ran hot through her veins. Sandor slinked one arm behind the small of her back and tugged her towards him with a groan.

 

For such a hard man, he tasted sweet and his body was warm against hers, a strong solid force despite the tenderness of his lips. So enraptured by the attention he lavished on, Sansa didn’t notice exactly when his hand slipped beneath her shirt. His fingers coiled against her waist and he smoothed his palm towards her breast. He lurched further forward and another pleasured groan sounded from his throat. She felt the hum of his chest against hers. His hand cupped her breast and his mouth moved to her neck in tantalizing licks and small nips.

 

Sansa buried her fingers in his hair and a sigh escaped her. The sound rewarded her with more kisses, heavy and hurried with want. Sandor was like a man starved. His chest heaved against her own and his other hand cupped the back of her head, his lips colliding into hers. Sansa’s hands drifted down his back and around to his chest where her fingers scratched gently. Meant to tame him, the act seemed a fire starter to another wave of intensity. Sandor’s hand slipped down the silhouette of her curves and gripped her hip hard. If it weren’t for the awkward position of a console between them, she was certain he’d be on top of her now with his hands freely roaming her body.

 

Sandor’s fingers curled beneath the band of her leggings and panties. She felt him grip the fabric tighter in his fist, poised to give a yank, but then they loosened instead and his fingers found there way underneath. He pulled away slightly from the kiss and matched her eyes. His fingers stilled as he gazed down at Sansa. When she gave a small nod, he pressed his mouth to hers again.

 

With his middle finger, he swiped along her slit and spread her lower lips. The kiss slowed and his mouth hovered over Sansa’s. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring at her with a heavy-lidded gaze. She was soaked between the legs and Sandor traipsed his finger through the wetness. She felt his breath warm against her lips and she gasped when he ran circles over her clit.

 

_This is wrong._

The invasive thought somehow managed to breakthrough the initial waves of pleasure rippling through Sansa’s body. She shooed it away. Now wasn’t the time to sort out right or wrong. She spread her legs and Sandor dipped his finger inside of her slowly. His tongue ran over her bottom lip and he pulled away slightly when she tried to deepen the kiss. Drunk on desire, he smiled devilishly at her and slipped another finger inside of her. Forgetting his lips for the moment, Sansa’s head fell back and her moans filled the space of the car. Her hips matched his movements – rocking forward when he slid his fingers inside of her and backwards when he pulled them out, all the while his thumb brushed at her clit.

 

_Too soon. It’s too much._

 

But he felt so good. This was everything she wanted. It was happening. He was urging her legs further apart.

 

“Sansa,” he murmured in her ear. “I want you.” He pulled her closer to him until she was crushed against his chest, as close as she possibly could be. He nuzzled his nose at her cheek and pressed kisses there.

 

She already knew he wanted her. His kisses, now at her lips again, had become urgent and his hand had gone straight to the place that could make her feel good. She wanted him too. The way he held her, the way he kissed her, touched her – it was everything she wanted.

 

_No, this isn’t everything I want._

Reason broke through too resonate to ignore. The delirium of desire suddenly dispersed. Sansa pressed her hands against Sandor’s chest and gave a small push. He broke the kiss and stared at her in confusion. His fingers stopped all movement.

 

“What’s the matter?” he panted.

 

“I can’t,” Sansa shook her head and sat up. The movements forced his hands from beneath her clothes. “Sandor, I can’t.”

 

He moved away from her with breaths still coming ragged from him lips. Dazed, he stared out the windshield. With shadows partially obscuring his face, Sansa strained to discern whatever it was that came over him. Hurt, perhaps. Confusion, most certainly. Something more distinct existed and when he turned to her, Sansa saw it plainly: fear and worry.

 

She was beyond embarrassment now and didn’t doubt Sandor’s attraction to her. She turned him on. He’d fuck her gladly, that was no secret. She knew quite well where his mind was at, but the question of his heart still remained unanswered. He’d let nothing go where that was concerned and whatever he _felt_ for her, if anything at all, had been entirely safeguarded.

 

“I should go,” she said and gathered her purse from the floorboard where it had fallen.

 

She couldn’t look at him now, but saw how Sandor’s chest still heaved in the periphery of her vision. She reached for the door handle, but he shifted towards her suddenly.

 

“On Halloween, you asked me about ‘the right one,’ if I’ve met her already,” Sandor blurted out before Sansa could open the door.

 

She dropped her hand to her lap and turned to him. She hadn’t the faintest recollection of asking that and, if he answered, she didn’t remember what he said.

 

“I told you yes,” he continued in earnest and with an almost pleading gaze cast in her direction.

 

“Oh.” Her eyes drifted away from his. She didn’t want to see what was there. He still looked worried and scared, as though something he was about to say would surely upset her. “Well, I’m happy for you…and for her, too,” she added before making for the door once more.

 

“Sansa, you can’t be serious!” Sandor’s voice rose with obvious frustration. She heard the sound of his hands crash against his lap, as if he’d thrown them in the air exasperation.

 

“What?” She spun towards him and conjured up whatever bits of dignity and pride she still had left. “I would just rather not hear about it.”

 

A sigh passed his lips and he looked at her as if she’d gone mental. He said nothing for a moment, but shook his head in disbelief. Why should she want to hear about whatever girl he had feelings for after he’d just copped all sorts of feels with her? How was that possibly so hard for him to comprehend?

 

“For fuck’s sake, it’s you!” he nearly shouted, but his words were punctuated with a joyless laugh. “Who the hell else would it be?”

 

It was a rhetorical question and if she felt like being smug, she might answer: _“Anyone else because you have no feelings for me, remember?”_

 

Of course, she should’ve known all along. How stupid of her not to divine meaning from his mixed signals. How foolish _not_ to pin her hopes on a man who declared a _zero_ percent chance of anything beyond friendship happening. He’d shouted it in the streets for the whole damn town to hear: Sansa Stark was not the girl he wanted. An employee, that’s all she was. Maybe a friend if she played her cards right.

 

Sansa flung open the car door and hurried out. By the time she’d slammed the door shut and stomped around the back end of the car, Sandor had removed himself from the driver seat and was rushing to catch her from the other side. She dodged him, walking well out of her way to circle around to her car.

 

“Sansa, stop! I’m not doing this again.” Something in Sandor’s voice stilled her movements. He sounded almost defeated, the verbal equivalent of waving the white flag.

 

She turned to him and squared her shoulders. She shook, not for nervousness or fear anymore. Her skin felt hot. She wanted to cry, but refused. She wanted to shout at him, but knew it’d get her nowhere.

 

“You said you didn’t have feelings for me,” she reminded him, but couldn’t quell the bitterness that pierced through. “You said that we’re only friends and nothing more.”

 

Sandor’s chest rose as he drew in a deep breath. He took a step towards her and, despite her instinct to move away, Sansa stayed root. He stared down at her with doleful remorse in his eyes. At least he gave her that much.

 

“I know what I said,” he spoke quietly. “I lied and I’m sorry.”

 

“If you’re sorry, then start telling me the truth!” she cried out and crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

 

Sandor bit his bottom lip and his jaw tensed. His eyes flickered away. _What the hell is wrong with him?_ She couldn’t understand the hesitation. He’d been quick to put his hands all over her, but faltered now. Was this the dichotomy of an emotionally unavailable man? She’d had had her fill of those.

 

Then, as if he knew the window of her graciousness and patience was closing, Sandor closed the space between them. He placed one hand gently at her elbow. When he spoke, he matched her eyes. They didn’t drift away, but remained resolutely on her.

 

“I don’t want you as a friend,” he began and marked each word with heavy emphasis. “I want you as more. I want all of you. Everything.”

 

He paused briefly and took another long breath. When he spoke again, he did so with the same urgency and passion as the way he kissed her, with the same want and tenderness as the way he’d held her.

 

“You are on my mind constantly. Day and night. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about _us._ All the things we could be, how fucking amazing we’d be together. Sansa, I’m crazy about you and I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you.”

 

When he finished, she understood his fear and worry. For all the nights she laid awake thinking about him, agonizing over what they could be together, he did the same. All the butterflies, the anticipation, the nervousness, the daydreams – they existed on both ends. It was pure in that way, the best possible start to something that might very well be amazing.

 

_Everything I wanted._

But then why did it feel so incomplete? There was a hole in heart and an emptiness that existed inside of her that he couldn’t fill. Although he might want to and she might let him try, it wouldn’t be right. He leaned towards her and dipped his head to kiss her, but Sansa stepped away from him.

 

“I want all the things you do. I want those things with you, Sandor. I just can’t do this right now.”

 

He looked at her in absolute astonishment. When his eyes lowered to the space between them, they flickered across the ground. He shook his head in disbelief and ran his fingers through his hair. She hurt him. She could see it surfacing in him before it was ushered away and hid behind stoicism. His jaw clenched and he refused to look at her.

 

“You want all of me, but I’m still broken. I’m confused and hurt and…” she tried to explain, but his gaze snapped towards her.

 

“Is this about Joffrey?” he interjected and it sounded like an accusation to her ears.

 

“This isn’t about him.” Her heartbeat rose in her chest again for the umpteenth time this evening and for yet another reason. A lump formed in her throat, but she wouldn’t dare cry in front of him yet again. “And it’s not about you. It’s about me being knee-deep in the shit from my last relationship. I’m not running right into something with you. What would that look like? How would that work?”

 

Her reasoning did little to move him. He narrowed his eyes at her as though she’d just spouted off a foreign language, words he’s never heard before and he couldn’t possibly understand what the hell she was talking about.

 

“You and me. That’s what it would look like. It would work like it has been working. It’s as complicated as you want it to be.”

 

It sounded so simple and Sandor presented it to her as such. Easy peasy. It would just _work_. She was single. He was single. Everything else would just fall into place. Sansa shook her head at him and felt her brow furrow, probably staring at him just as he’d stared at her moments ago – completely bewildered.

 

“Of all people, you’re the last person I’d expect to be naïve about this.”

 

She meant it too. Sandor was so levelheaded and pragmatic. How on earth couldn’t he see? No matter the sincerity and truth of her statement, it angered him and clearly bruised his pride.

 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he huffed. “I’m putting it all out here for you. I’m out on a limb and it’s like you don’t want this.”

 

“I never said that I don’t want this,” Sansa countered with her own anger rising. It caught his attention. Sandor stared blankly, but his jaw set firmly as he ground his teeth.

 

She would have to be the first to relent, Sansa knew. She stepped towards him until the tips of her toes were a few inches from his. When she looked up at him, he looked away and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“We do it right or we don’t do it all,” she declared as gently as she could. “ _Nothing_ can be done right with one foot out the door and one in. Give me time. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

“Time,” he repeated uncertainly and stared off in the distance over her head.

 

“Time. Not space,” she urged. “You seem to confuse the two.”

 

Sandor released a heavy sigh and looked at her. The anger and frustration dispersed on both their ends and something bittersweet remained – mutual want and willingness, but the timing was all wrong.

 

“Look, maybe I started it and this is my fault, but this whole push-pull thing isn’t going to work. I don’t want you half in-half out either. Take your time, but maybe a little space is needed too, just until things settle.”

 

 _I don’t want that,_ she thought to say, but bit her tongue. There were two of them in this – whatever _it_ was. She needed time, and he needed space.

 

“Yeah,” Sansa sighed forlornly. “Space and time.”

 

Neither of them moved away from one another. Instead, they remained where they were: so very close in proximity to one another, but they might as well have been a thousand miles away. The sound of highway traffic infiltrated the space between them. Sansa waited from him to say something else and realized he was probably waiting for the same thing. She shivered against a cold wind picking up around them.

 

“I guess I should go,” she murmured and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Sandor agreed tepidly with a nod. “Text me so I know you got home.”

 

His eyes flickered towards her, but he didn’t smile. Sansa took a step backwards from him and then another.

 

“I will,” she said before turning away from him. Sansa dug out the keys from her purse and climbed into her car. She pulled from the parking space and headed towards the main road with Sandor behind her. She drove in silence to the next stoplight. She watched as Sandor made a right turn and sped off towards the highway. Eventually, his taillights disappeared into the distance. The traffic light turned green and Sansa headed in the opposite direction of the highway.

 

 _It could all be so perfect,_ she thought dolefully. Everything she wanted, he’d offered her. She must’ve been stupid to turn it down and tell him they needed to wait.

 

Sansa felt a petulant urge rise within her. It bid her to call him and tell him never mind. Time didn’t make any difference and she wanted him _now,_ anything to make the ache in her heart go away. Still, she knew the hurt couldn’t be tamed in that way.

 

Her mother once told her that people love with two hearts, but never at the same time. The lesser one, the fragile heart, needs others more than itself. It gives endlessly, even when it’s dangerous to do so. It breaks easily, and the love it gives is incomplete because it cannot love itself as it does others.

 

The other, the noble heart, protects both itself and the one’s it loves. It gives to others what it gives to itself – fairness, understanding, and tenderness. The truest love – the kind that endures with patience and faith – comes from the noble heart.

 

If she weighed her decisions against her fragile heart, it’d always urge her to seek out temporary indulgences. Those moments were only fleeting and never enough. Sansa cast the urges of her fragile heart aside and remained resolute in her decision.

 

Once safely home and inside her door, she removed her phone from her purse and slipped out of her shoes. On her way to the bedroom, she tapped out a message to Sandor.

 

**_Just got home. Thanks for letting me come along tonight._ **

****

Sansa tossed her phone on the bed and headed for the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and slipped out of her clothes before donning an oversized T-shirt. On her bed, her phone was lit up with a new message from Sandor.

****

**_Good. And no problem. Thanks for keeping me company._ **

****

Sansa placed her phone on the nightstand and climbed into bed before turning off the lamp. She closed her eyes, but heard her phone buzz a few moments later. She rolled over onto her stomach and snatched up the phone to find a new text message from Sandor.

****

**_I know what I want and it’s you, Sansa. Take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere. Just wanted you to know…I’m sorry if things were weird tonight._ **

 

Sansa collapsed against her pillow. A calm sigh escaped her lips and she typed out her reply to him.

 

**_I want you too, Sandor. Everything will work itself out. I know it will. Goodnight <3_ **

 

She replaced her phone to the nightstand and curled up in her sheets. For the first time in so long, she felt at peace. Time would heal her noble heart and she would make sure that it did because, above all else, they both deserved the kind of love a noble heart could give.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone get these two a copy of "The Five Love Languages," amirite? 
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you all so much for your patience between this update and the last. Also, thank you for all the amazing love and support you've shown this fic. I mean, WOW! You all the absolute best! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed :)

**Author's Note:**

> I will post chapter one tomorrow. I'd like to turn this one around quickly. Then again, I said that about Thunderstruck....
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed :)


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